


Of Fire and Fools

by Oblivian03



Series: Freedom is a Hard Road: Fëanor Lives AU [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU - Feanor Lives, Aftermath of Losgar & the Helcaraxë, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Breakdown, Politics, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2019-07-25 12:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 78,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16197236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oblivian03/pseuds/Oblivian03
Summary: "It is a fool who makes an oath he cannot keep and cannot break." - one brother swore vengeance and the other swore to follow, whilst their sister followed him. Yet, between dangerous politics and dangerous foes, all struggle to keep their families whole. Fire is proud and fierce, but even it eventually must go out.A 'Feanor Lives' AU. Inspired by Ilye's fantastic 'Brightest of Us All', also on AO3.!Read the tags for warnings! (Some are only applicable later on.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Brightest of Us All](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002490) by [Ilye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilye/pseuds/Ilye). 



> Disclaimer: I do not own the Silmarillion or any of the related franchise. 
> 
> As stated in the summary, this was inspired by Ilye's fic 'Brightest of Us All' which was a good fic, but short and left me wanting more of this Feanor Lives AU. This is a separate story to that, however, and key aspects of its plot are/will be different. 
> 
> For those who struggle with the character's multiple names (Quenya versions will be used for the most part here, with a few exceptions), see the notes at the end.

The two elves sat across from each other on either side of a bed. Half-brothers they were, but even that scant shared blood had somehow faded to make them strangers. What brought them together now was all the urgency of all their problems manifested in the third elf lying prone on the bed between them. It was a hard task, Ñolofinwë found, to admit that the unconscious being was an elf and an even harder one to admit the elf was his eldest nephew, Maitimo.

Bones. That was the first thing Finwë's second son had thought when his gaze had fallen to the bundle held in his own trembling son's steady hands. Covered completely by Findekáno's cloak, there had been no telling it was an elf. Just bones sticking everywhere and grief for lost kin and pity for a bereaved father. Then the wind, as though on Manwë's whim, had tugged back the hood far enough to see skin beyond copper hair.

There had still been no way to tell for sure that Maitimo lived. From the ground they could not have seen his breath stirring so slightly (still so slightly) in his chest, no the fresh blood still sluggishly soaking everything around that arm. There had been no way to tell that the skin, though dry and worn and grey, bore no signs of the decomposition that marked the dead. Yet, somehow he knew as a father knew – Findekáno would not have brought home a fresh corpse had he stumbled upon it. No eagle would have ever returned from Angamando.

In hindsight, it should have been Fëanáro's reaction that told him.

The elf had not screamed or wailed. He had not collapsed upon his knees as he had when news of his father's death reached him, brought by the same son Findekáno had miraculously brought to him. The eagle's wings had yet to settle fully from their flight, but something had settled fully on Fëanáro's face. Beyond the rage there had been fear and what need was there to fear for one who was already dead?

No, Maitimo had lived. A mockery of his mother's given name now perhaps, but he lived. Without a right hand, he lived. Without colour in his face that was not black or blue or yellow or a horrid, burnt red. Without half the flesh he had once possessed, without more than half for those protruding bones seemed to be covered by skin alone. Though the same skin seemed to be covered by scars upon scars. Sprawling and crisscrossed, some thick and some as thin as the thread that cruelly held the elf's fëa in place. His eyes were closed in unconsciousness. That in itself was wholly unnatural.

Matimo lived.

The words of Ñolofinwë's brother blew back to him on the bitter winds of memory: he was lucky Arakáno was dead. There had been anger when Fëanáro had first said it and anger still even when the eagle had come. Now there was just stark relief in the face of truth. He was lucky Arakáno was dead.

Ñolofinwë sighed. Still, Maitimo's condition was only one of the many issues they had yet to resolve.

"He is too ill to move," the Noldor Lord finally braved.

Fëanáro made no reply.

Ñolofinwë sighed again. "I can grant you three days, I think, before my people start baying for my blood as well as yours. Gossip will spread by those who saw him. Our hearts, though hardened, were not frozen on the Grinding Ice. A little longer, perhaps, if Findekáno recounts his story to them and you show  _some_ gesture of apology."

"He is my son."

"I know." Ñolofinwë did not know if his brother was making an argument or a simple statement or an oath of vengeance. The darkness that underscored his voice, disconcertedly, did not make it clearer. "Nevertheless-"

"He is  _my_   _son_." Now Fëanáro's eyes flashed with that famed temper that had somehow become so warped so quickly.

Makalaurë had said his father had changed. Changed indeed the great elf seemed. His physique was near enough to that of the Fëanáro decades ago when Ñolofinwë had last seen him in Alqualondë –where other elves, including himself, had grown in muscle mass, those whose arts in Valinor had laid smithery had changed very little. It was just another advantage his brother had begun with here in Beleriand alongside a dozen ships filled with much needed supplies. Yet, in his eyes there was a shadow there that had not been even upon their father's death. What madness lurked behind it-

But such trains of thought did little to solve the current predicament.

"Three days, Fëanáro," Ñolofinwë said. "I cannot grant you much else. Even that may be too much for some."

"Then perhaps Findekáno should have asked the eagle to land by my camp and not yours."

"My son had no control over that eagle," the younger elf snapped. "His focus was on  _your_ son alone. It is by Manwë's will that we were closer to my camp than to yours."

Fëanáro laughed. "Manwë? Still you place faith in that piddling Vala?"

"And still you commit blasphemy against him," Ñolofinwë said dryly. His brother was not fazed.

"Oh, come off the tower you deign yourself to live on," he said. "You turned from the Valar as freely as I. Besides, what reason have you to still clutch to your faith? Tell me, did the Valar aid you at all on the Helcaraxë? Did they come to warm all your cold fingers and toes like a mother does for her babe? Did they come to raise the snow from you to save your clothes from being ruined? Did they come when the ice split beneath your feet? When Elenwë died? Where was your Manwë then?"

The only thing that kept Ñolofinwë from strangling Fëanáro with his own bare hands was that he would have to lean across Maitimo to do so. That was an action churlish enough to keep the elf's anger in his voice alone. He would have to thank Lalwendë later for her wise placement of the only seating in the room. No doubt she knew neither one of her brothers, sharing or half sharing her blood, would dare grow physical in their anger with such a vulnerable member of their family between them. It would just make already bad matters worse diplomatically if one of them killed the other in a fit of rage.

They were already teetering on the precipice of an all-out war. Had almost been at blows before the eagle had landed amongst them.

"You think to mock the Ice," Ñolofinwë said, his voice as cold as that which he mentioned. "You would not, had you experienced it. Imagine snow as far as the eye can see, hard and cold and wet. A sparse distribution of rock pointing out like jagged teeth. It swallowed us up alone and in groups, families broken and lost entirely.  _Fathers_ lost and  _mothers_  too, like poor Elenwë who left little Itarillë behind. This was what we suffered."

"Perhaps you were just too stubborn to know when to turn back. It is a shame your pride would stop you from admitting this. You would not want all those deaths on your conscience, would you?"

"Like you fail to let the deaths at Alqualondë lay on yours?" Ñolofinwë made to stand, glimpsed a ruined face and settled back into his chair.

The air in the room had grown unbearably tense. It was much like the initial cracking of a sheet of ice: violence could erupt at any moment and plunge them all into the frigid waters to die.

Moringotto was probably laughing at them now from whatever shadow throne he sat upon in Angamando. (Ñolofinwë prayed he was if it would save his own eldest from the Vala's wrath. Findekáno had been brave and rash and a fool.)

"Alqualondë," Fëanáro finally began. "It was a…miscalculation."

And perhaps that was as close as the elf would ever get to admitting a mistake. To the very mistake that had brought the Noldor and his own House their Doom.

The younger of Finwë's sons laughed bitterly. "A miscalculation is one way to describe it. A massacre is another. I am sure the Teleri use that word quite freely, at least those who still live."

"Olwë did not have to be so possessive of his boats. I would have returned them."

"My people blame you for it, of course."

"I heard the rumblings when we left you all those years ago. They blamed me for many things. They still do." Fëanáro looked up. " _I_  did not tell them to draw their swords."

"They shouldn't have had to."

"Bah." Fëanáro tore his gaze away, grey eyes roaming about the room before being drawn once more to the slack face of his son. "If you want gratitude, I already thanked you for coming to our aid after we won. If you want an apology, look elsewhere for it. Teleri blood stains your hands as much as it stains mine."

Ñolofinwë remained unmoved. The words were his brother in full, his  _half_ -brother as the other had always steadfastly pointed out. (Not always, perhaps. There was a time once- But that was centuries ago, before things had changed and shadows sought to poison the ears of greatness.) Blunt and true. Fëanáro had never been one to believe in telling lies. Had never believed what he said could be one. It had always made pointing out his false logic difficult. Ñolofinwë had sworn to follow Fëanáro; he would not have betrayed him to become king whatever rumours said.

Silence fell upon the room like a sword upon an elven head. With neither of its conscious occupants having anything to say to the other that was not fuelled by anger and hurt so it was that neither spoke. That left them with little to do but muse.

It was abundantly clear as to what Fëanáro was musing.

As aloof as the smith often appeared, he was a very tactile being. Always touching something of whomever he was with be it hands or hair or clothing, always fiddling with something when he could not touch, tinkering away at anything in grasping distance – Ñolofinwë could scarcely remember a time when he had been still. Even in rage he had shaken like the leaves in a tree assailed by wind. Even in the greatest of griefs he had taken to his feet and fled. So to see him now so hesitant to touch, fingers creeping forward to a shorn copper head before falling dead upon the pillows and remaining there unmoving… It seemed as unnatural as Maitimo's closed eyes.

What had Fëanáro been thinking when he had abandoned his son to their father's murderer?

Yet, Ñolofinwë knew well there had been little else his oldest brother could have done. When faced with such decisions, the life of one meant little compared to the life of hundreds of others who also looked to you for guidance. It had been a hard lesson to learn on the Ice, but a lesson nonetheless. Beleriand was not as Valinor had been, any mercy it had once possessed had been drowned out long ago by its screaming.

His eldest brother had not given up on his eldest son – even when the news had first been delivered to those of Finwë's House who had survived the Grinding Ice with that damning phrase 'seek Nelyafinwë Maitimo no more, he is dead', the eyes of Fëanáro had shown determination more than grief. No less than twenty times the elf had ridden out in force towards Angamando, Makalaurë had informed him, only to be rebuffed by the forces of Darkness no less than twenty times before even drawing close to its looming gates. No great losses had been suffered by his brother's people, not since the loss of Maitimo. Still, no great gains had been made either.

Eventually, thoughts had to be turned to fortification and ensuring those who still lived continued living as more than just exiles in a wild land. How much had it hurt the first son of Finwë and only son of Miríel to tear his gaze away from Angamando, even if temporarily?

"He will live." The healers had said as much, however uncertainly, when they had finished tending to the wreck of his nephew's body, though Ñolofinwë suspected they had been, in part, too afraid to say otherwise in the face of Fëanáro's burning glare. Even now the elf did not appreciate the comfort.

"I cannot leave him. Not again."

Ñolofinwë closed his eyes. "If you stay here I cannot guarantee there will not be violence," the Lord said wearily. "Please, think at least of M…" A glimpse of a ruined body. "Maitimo, I implore you."

Fëanáro growled, his sharp gaze returning to the one across from him. That he had picked up on his brother's hesitation seemed to incite his fury further. "If you cannot guarantee his safety-"

"I  _can_ ," Ñolofinwë interrupted, well aware of the threat hanging in the air. "So long as  _you_  are not here."

The other seemed to think on this. "One of his brothers-"

"Would cause the same trouble, though less of it," Ñolofinwë said.

"I will not just abandon my son here, not like this!"

"He will still have family around him, if that is your concern."

Fëanáro snorted and it didn't hurt as much as it once had. The Helcaraxë had cooled much of his desire to be acknowledged by his brother as more than some whelp whose mother had imposed on the role meant to be filled by someone else. (And still some small part of him longed for  _something_ more than the derisive indifference and fierce rivalry they had settled into for a long-forgotten reason.)

"If you expect us to stay away until he is fully recovered and well enough to travel…"

It was, indeed, a big ask. Disputed King or not, betrayer or not, Fëanáro was also a father who had just gotten back his son.

"At least until he wakes," Ñolofinwë conceded. "If the healers are right in their suspicions, that may not be for a while yet." However much it pained the uncle in him, pained the _father_  who could sympathise with another and knew he would have to watch his own son wrangle with his own pain and guilt, it was a fact that still brought a temporary solution. "Tempers should be able to cool on both sides, even if it is just a little. We can reassess the situation then."

It was only one of many situations that needed reassessing. Still, now was not the time to discuss them.

"And you want me to leave in three days?"

"It would be best," said the leader of those who had braved the Ice. "I will send you letters personally, daily if you need, informing you of his condition and any changes. I can have the healers send reports."

"Daily?"

The other breathed. The healers would not be happy, yet… "If they must." He waited, almost nervously.

"Very well," Fëanáro finally said, though it clearly pained him. "I will stay away until he wakes."

"Until then," Ñolofinwë answered, verbally sealing their deal.

Fëanáro laughed. It was not a pleasant thing to hear. "What have we dragged our children into? Death and torment and Doom."

The words were a far cry from the sure, remorseless elf Fëanáro had crafted himself to be.

"We did not know," his brother said.  _We could not know._

Words fell away, then, in the wake of morbid thoughts. Would their wives forgive them should they ever be allowed to return to Valinor? Would Anairë forgive him for the loss of Arakáno and darling Elenwë? It was  _their_  father who had been killed. Yet, Finwë had been their children's grandfather too. Even when Arafinwë had turned away, his sons and daughter had not. So it had been, so it would always be; in the deepest pits of his heart, Ñolofinwë knew not one of their children could have been made to stay behind.

"He had no part in the burning at Losgar."

"What?" Ñolofinwë glanced at his ruined nephew and then back to the one who had spoken.

Fëanáro's face settled into a blank mask. "Nelyafinwë, my eldest son and heir to the title and crown of the High-King of the Noldor after me, did not take a torch to the ships or pick up a torch at all. He poured no oil and turned his back on all those who did. Tell your followers if it will help ease their attitudes towards him being here."

For a moment potent rage took root in Ñolofinwë's bones. How could his brother dare to say such a thing? "I know you are the least sensitive elf I know, but even you could not stoop so low as to invent such a lie to protect your own. Paranoid you might be, but it is not justified here. We are not monsters or the Enemy. Our hearts did not freeze on the ice into rock. That you would deign to think-"

"I do not jest nor make light of the Helcaraxë," Fëanáro snapped. "Hard as someone like  _you_  may find to believe, I did know a few amongst those who crossed with you who perished along the way. I too am not Moringotto to be indifferent to suffering. Nor am I a liar as he is. By Ilúvatar I swear it: Nelyafinwë Maitimo argued to send back the ships for those left on the bloody shores of Alqualondë for Findekáno and his father and all their ilk and those who followed them, and when his argument did not prevail turned away from the torches and from me."

The declaration left Ñolofinwë reeling. He tried very hard not to look at the nephew before him, the one who, by his father's truest word, had not betrayed them. It would help his people to know they had not been entirely forgotten and yet… To reveal such a thing so soon would be too soon for many, no matter who Fëanáro swore by. Trust was what they would have to rely on, a stout belief that no one would harm someone so close to death.

Still, his nephew had remembered. His poor, ruined nephew.

Finally, Ñolofinwë spoke and bitterly so. "You would think we'd have learnt not to swear by now by the name of the All-Father."

"It is a fool who makes an oath he cannot keep and cannot break," Fëanáro replied. But his gaze was on his son and something else underlined his tone that Ñolofinwë could not identify.

What could the other say to that?

Wordlessly, Finwë's second son rose and walked softly to the door. His nephew's eyes might be closed in deep unconsciousness, unlikely to wake even to the demands and pleas of his father, but the room still called for a softness that was hard to give. Reaching for the handle, Ñolofinwë made to open it.

"You swore to follow me, Ñolvo," Fëanáro's voice called after him. "Remember that when you think to forge yourself a new crown."

His half-brother made no reply. Still a chill traced its fingers down his spine. His own oath may not have been as dark as the one Fëanáro wrought in grief and madness and bound his sons to as well, but perhaps it would prove just as damning.

The door closed and Ñolofinwë leaned against it. He refrained from burying his head in his hands. When his host had arrived, swiftly they had descended upon the abandoned camp of Fëanáro and his followers. The clash with orcs that had befallen them almost immediately after stepping off the ice had cooled their desire for a meeting of arms, at least for a time, and quickly then the host had moved on towards Angamando, leaving only those weak and sick behind with enough warriors to defend them.

The failure there had burned them all. Only half-heartedly they had taken comfort in the fact that Fëanáro and his ilk had not yet succeeded either despite their lengthier stay in Beleriand. That too had become more bitter when, upon returning to their camp, they had found several wagons of supplies and a score of animals, goats and sheep mostly, waiting. There was no insignia upon any of the goods nor any letter or guard in accompaniment, yet they had known. The same betrayer who had abandoned them now provided for them. It only stung more that they could not afford to reject what had been given. Medicine and supplies and animals for work and wool and food were sorely needed. So Ñolofinwë had done what his brother could rarely do, swallowed his pride.

Everything had fast become so very complicated. How could it be that two brothers, half though they were, were at such odds? That two factions of the same people could scarcely share the land they found themselves upon? That a hero in one world was viewed as a traitor in another? Findekáno's role in delivering a son of Fëanáro would not be forgotten nor likely forgiven by many who had crossed the Helcaraxë.

Not for the first time, Ñolofinwë wished his father could be there with him.

The elf gathered himself, drew himself up and pushed on. There were others waiting for him. He walked down the hall and entered into a nearby room.

Lalwendë looked up from where she had been sitting with Findekáno. It was the latter who spoke first, however.

"Is he-"

"Still unconscious," Ñolofinwë answered grimly. "The healers suspect he will remain so for a while."

"And our brother?"

Findekáno snorted, leaning back against the wall of the hallway. Both of his elders ignored him.

"Has agreed to leave in three days," Ñolofinwë said.

His sister looked surprised. "I had not thought… Not with the state that our poor nephew is in. Fëanáro was never known to take it lightly when one of his sons was hurt in Valinor. I could almost feel sorry for Moringotto."

"Except that he killed our father and now this." Ñolofinwë laughed humourlessly. "The situation in Tirion was never as it is here. The Noldor were not divided into factions so dangerously. A love for courtly processes and debates Fëanáro has never had, but even he understands how quickly things might erupt into violence here if he stays any longer. He will swallow his pride for Maitimo, at least."

"How could such a thing even be feasible?" Lalwendë shook her head. "I never believed that the Enemy could make orcs from elves, but now I am not so certain."

"Maitimo is not an orc!" Findekáno exclaimed, all but launching himself to the defence of his cousin. Every hair on him was bridling with anger and not a little frustration, and it occurred to Ñolofinwë that his eldest was likely caught in a place somewhere amid adrenaline and exhaustion and distress. A feat as he had accomplished never came cheaply. Maitimo had lost his hand. What had his son lost? Ñolofinwë feared the answer.

"Of course not," Lalwendë said sadly. "He has too much of his father's spirit in him for that. I suppose we should be thankful."

And yet Ñolofinwë knew she was thinking. How much had Moringotto punished Maitimo for just that? How much worse had the name of the father made torment for the son?

"It would be best if you or I were to deliver food to the room for our brother," he said, drawing his mind back to their current problem. "Anyone else…"

"I will do it," Lalwendë said. "I'm still not sure you won't strangle him and that he won't goad you into doing so. I, at least, have the advantage of being an elleth. He was always more gallant to those bearing a feminine physique – Nerdanel's influence, of course. He was a heathen, like the rest of you I was forced to call brother, to all the elleth that dared roam father's palace, until you all found wives to knock some sense into you."

Her brother gave a wan smile. "Thank you."

Lalwendë kissed him chastely on the cheek. "Think nothing of it, Ñolvo. It is only for three days."

"Until Maitimo wakes," Ñolofinwë replied, returning to rubbing his face. "We have only managed to put off the issue, not solve it."

"But it gives us time," Lalwendë pointed out.

"Aye." Her brother looked at her once more. "What are we to do, Lalwen? The Noldor should not be sundered as we are, and yet here we are. What paths must we endure to fix this?"

"The path of sleep, for one," his sister answered. She gave both father and son a hard stare. "Both of you need it."

Findekáno crossed his arms. "I want to sit with Maitimo."

"Can you do so without antagonising your uncle?" Lalwendë asked. Her nephew did not drop his gaze, but she gave a humourless twerk of her lips all the same. "Three days, Finno. Then you may sit with him."

"For as long as your duties permit, in any case," his father declared. "You have neglected them long enough."

His eldest bowed his head, acknowledging the truth of his Lord's words. Still, his eyes shone with no regrets. They never did when his valiant son had done what he thought to be right.

"This can be discussed latter," Lalwendë interrupted. "Neither of you will not be expected for breakfast so be sure to make the most of it. Now, if you will excuse me, I will inform the healers and guards of our guest. I do not want to see either of you before the sun rises."

With that, she strode off with all the purpose of a king. Ñolofinwë looked after her with an almost bemused expression.

"And to think she claims me as her Lord," he muttered.

Findekáno glanced at him. "What?"

"Nothing." The father examined the other, finally alone with his wayward and disobedient son. He thought of fifty things to say and said none of them. Thought of another and quelled it as well. Anger was not the way to go about this, even that sparked by concern and love.

His son, ever braver, spoke then. "Whatever you say, I would have climbed the stars themselves to bring him home."

"This is not some tale, Findekáno, where the hero always saves his friend and returns home to live in comfort while his foes cower forever in their wretched holes!"

And sometimes the anger won out.

"I am not a child," Findekáno snapped back. "I know this is no tale. In no tale would the air burn as it did in Angamando. In no tale would the shadows passed feel as though they were lying in wait to devour you. In no tale would screams echo endlessly on the winds bringing both terror and unimaginable despair. In no tale would my most beloved cousin-" He cut himself off, tore his gaze away and worked his jaw furiously. For all the stars that had lit the darkness, it looked like he was trying not to cry. "I know I could have died."

"Yes," his father all but shouted. "You could have been caught as well! Would you have me suffer as Fëanáro has suffered these past years? Would you be the cause of further grief for Iríssë? For poor Turkáno who has already been wounded deeply by the loss of his wife? Would you have them suffer as your cousin's brothers have?"

"They did nothing to save him!" Findekáno raged. "They  _left_ him there. They, his own family, abandoned him like they abandoned us!"

"Like you abandoned  _us_  in your idiotic quest?"

Any lesser elf would have stopped short at the blow, but Findekáno was made to move, to do, to speak where no others would. "I will not be like  _them_ ," he said, voice dripping with a coldness he had found only on the ice. " _I_ do not abandon my kin."

"No," Ñolofinwë agreed. "You just leave them without a word or some semblance of a sign that you have not been taken-" The Lord choked on the last word and grabbed his startled son, pulling the younger into his chest. "I though I had lost you too, my valiant boy."

Findekáno buried his head into his father's robes. "I didn't want to have to lose anyone else."

Ñolofinwë sighed. He should have known. Arakáno's ghost hung over them with as much weight as Elenwë's. More so for two embraced, for neither the father nor the eldest son had managed to cut their way through the foe in time to save him close though they had been. They still had not spoken of it. Perhaps, Ñolofinwë thought, they should.

"Is the situation here really that precarious?"

The question was unexpected, though not surprising. Ñolofinwë looked down at his son solemnly. "I am afraid so, dear one. Elves do not forget nor forgive grievances against them so easily. Your uncle alone stands testament to that."

"Should I have brought Maitimo to the other side?" Findekáno asked. His underlying question was clear: is he in danger here?

"The eagle did as it saw fit," his father answered, neither a confirmation or denial. "We shall manage the situation as best we can. If it is within your cousin's strength to heal, then your deed will not be in vain. I myself will tend him day and night if that is what is required for this to be."

"But he will wake?"

Ñolofinwë did not answer. False hope was as cruel as despair and twice as deadly when revealed. His son was not stupid, but an optimist he had ever been.

"He will wake," the younger said more determinedly. "He has to if only to show Moringotto that no stubborn son of Fëanáro can be broken by him."

His father hummed in reply. Stroked his son's tangled hair. "Keep willing it so. Perhaps Maitimo will hear you."

Another pause. Another silence in which Finwë's second son could only think of what they had been brought to. The other elf present was thinking too.

"Am I to be punished?"

Ñolofinwë tweaked his lips at his son. "What do you think? I cannot have my eldest son flout my decrees freely when I except all others who follow me to obey them."

"You did not say I could not go," Findekáno pointed out.

"You did not ask permission."

"I-"

He was cut off. "The standoff you landed in the middle of would have fast turned into a fight and then a war. The eagle's presence alone quelled much of it, and the rest came to a swift end upon the sight of you with your poor cousin afterwards. Still, dear one, it was your disappearance that sparked it."

Findekáno's mouth fell open, though no sound came out.

"Some here thought your uncle had taken you hostage," Ñolofinwë said, then, upon his son's look, quickly added, "Not me. I suspected where you had gone after the patrols found nothing of you. I knew when Iríssë told me your harp was gone – Maitimo gave it to you did he not?" Without waiting for confirmation of something he already knew, he continued. "I suppose the standoff was partially my fault. Upon realising this I rode straight to Fëanáro after he had sent me a missive that none of his patrols had seen you either. I informed no one of the message outside that he had sent it and it regarded you, nor did I explain my urgent need to see him or why I was taking a score of warriors. I had hoped he would know of a way to fetch you back before you could be captured." He laughed humourlessly. "Of course, several of the Lords here, well meaning I am sure, got the idea he had kidnapped you and was holding you for ransom."

"For what?" Findekáno cried. "It's not as though we have riches and they have vastly more supplies than us."

"For my allegiance," Ñolofinwë said plainly. "I still have not bent the knee to my brother."

"But you have already sworn to follow him."

His father gave a sad smile. "That was before the Helcaraxë. Things have changed and all those politically inclined know it. My refusal to kneel thus far has, in no small part, contributed to the tensions between our two encampments."

Findekáno stilled at this. Was silent for a moment, before: "I wish we could go back to the way things were."

"Oh, my brave child," Ñolofinwë said. "But, alas, we cannot. Ever was time meant to march forward and not back."

"If only we could," his son lamented. "Arakáno would be safe. Elenwë and grandfather and Maitimo-" He broke off with a sob.

"What was done to him was a crime that should not exist. However, he is there no longer. Take heart in that."

"Oh, Father, the things I saw! And I never viewed the Pits of Angamando where they keep those their vile Lord has imprisoned." The distress on Findekáno's face was as potent as the distress that had been in Ñolofinwë's own heart upon his eldest son's disappearance. "He had been kept there, I'm sure of it. Those scars you cannot receive from rock and exposure alone."

"I know." And if his son had been seeking for someone to contradict his logic, he found them not in his father. Softly now, coupled with a sigh, Ñolofinwë said again, "You are a fool."

A pause, then in a voice as small as it was strong, "I could do not different."

 _I know._ In the face of Findekáno's bravery that shone even now from him, Ñolofinwë knew. His son had been made from the stuff of action, the need to do instead of sitting idly by when things came to pass as was his brother's wont. In Tirion it was a recipe for troublemaking. In Beleriand it could quickly lead to his death. Arakáno had the same streak of valour in his fëa, only without the maturity of his brother the quell it. It had made him deadly to the first orcs they had faced and rash and dead.

He did not want to lose any more of his children. Did not want Anairë to be left wondering after another who had gone to Mandos' halls.

Findekáno, meanwhile, had not let go. It seemed he was loath to do so. His father felt much the same.

"Come to bed," Ñolofinwë said at last. He was sure he was holding most of his son's weight as exhaustion sunk its claws into the youth. Findekáno blinked up at him then nodded mutely.

There was something clearly wrong with his eldest, something else that was eating away at his large and noble heart. Yet, his father did not have the will to discover what it was in that moment, too filled was his own heart with grief and regret.

They had marshalled their children like fawns into the wolves' trap. This simply the price of their folly.

Quietly the pair entered into the younger's room only a few doors up the hallway. Helping Findekáno free himself at last from his dirtied and bloodstained clothes, Ñolofinwë too helped the young elf to cleanse his hair and back from grime. He himself cleaned his hands and arms, stripping off the outer robe and one beneath that had too become stained with blood. His nephews blood.

Without asking, Ñolofinwë collapsed onto his son's bed pulling his son down with him. "Sleep," he whispered gently. "I will stay."

Findekáno and finally let his eyes glaze over in slumber. His rest would not be a peaceful one, however, and already a frown came to mar his exhausted face.

Ñolofinwë pulled his son closer still and clung to him as he had all those centuries ago when the child had first been placed into a new father's arms. The elf Lord closed his eyes, pretending he could not feel the quaking that gripped him in turn. Arakáno was dead. Maitimo was not. There was no need to question which House of Finwë's eldest sons would suffer the worst Doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names - Sindarin appears first (i.e. on the left).
> 
> Feanor & sons ( grandson):
> 
> Fëanor = Fëanáro; Curufinwë (Note the latter name is only rarely applied to him and is used mostly for his son of the same name [see below])  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë; Maitimo (Russandol, Nelyo)  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë; Makalaurë (Káno)  
> Celegorm = Turcafinwë; Tyelcormo (Tyelko)  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë; Carnistir (Mori)  
> Curufin = Curufinwë; Atarinkë (Curvo)  
> Amrod = Pitafinwë; Ambarussa (Pitya)  
> Amras = Telufinwë; Ambarussa (Telvo)  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar (Telpe)
> 
> Fingolfin & children (daughter-in-law & granddaughter):
> 
> Fingolfin = Ñolofinwë (Ñolvo)  
> Fingon = Findekáno (Finno; Fin)  
> Turgon = Turkáno  
> Aredhel = Iríssë  
> Argon = Arakáno (Ara)  
> Irdil = Itarillë (Celebrindal)
> 
> Finarfin & children:
> 
> Finarfin = Arafinwë; Ingoldo (Ingo)  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Aegnor = Ambaráto  
> Galadriel = Artanis (Alatáriel)  
> Orodeth = Artaresto
> 
> Other members of House Finwë:
> 
> Írimë; Lalwendë (Lalwen)
> 
> Thingol (& wife):
> 
> Elu = Elwë (Thingol)  
> Melian = Melyanna
> 
> Valar:
> 
> Morgoth = Melkor (Moringotto)  
> Aran Einior = Manwë (Valtur)  
> Elbereth = Varda (Elentári; Tintallë; Gilthoniel)  
> Mandos; Námo  
> Óli = Aluë  
> Ivon = Yavanna  
> Lórien; Irmo  
> Araw = Oromë (Tauron)
> 
> Followers of Morgoth:
> 
> Gorthaur (the Cruel) = Sauron; Annatar
> 
> Places:
> 
> Helcaraxë (Grinding Ice)  
> Angband = Angamando  
> Aman; Valinor (Blessed Realm)


	2. Chapter 2

The door had shut a while ago leaving Fëanáro alone with his son. For a small, irrational moment when the door had closed, the elf had wished his half-brother would return if only so he could not face this alone.

Ñolofinwë had not returned.

Fëanáro did not care. It had been a moment of weakness, nothing more.

The smith's fingers creeped once more to the copper hair of his son. It had been cropped – Fëanáro himself had done the wicked task, taboo as it was to cut an elf's hair so drastically. None had objected to his role in this. None had dared. The once beautiful hair had been rank and mattered and filled with lice, and the kindest thing to do was to let the father of its suffering owner do what needed to be done. It would grow back in time, though it was thinner than it once had been. That too would be rectified. As he had gently washed what remained of the copper locks, Fëanáro had silently uttered both blessing and prayers over it, and though it was not smithery, the magic had been drawn through his fëa all the same.

Crafty fingers paused, once more unable to breach the final distance needed to touch his son. Instead Fëanáro focused on the slight breaths he could hear.

The room was strangely quiet. Almost eerily so. Before there had been the words between himself and the only son of Indis, before that the singing of many healers trying to undo what the Enemy had done. Still, Moringotto did his work well, no one could accuse him of otherwise however vile that work might be.

Findekáno… Findekáno – never had Fëanáro felt such gratitude for a son of Ñolofinwë. Bold, brave Findekáno who had retrieved his eldest son where he himself could not, where an army armed with the finest swords he had been able to make had not, when a company of warriors containing some of the greatest fighters had not, nor any elf who had thought to make themselves a name, nor any brother of the one who had been caught.

In fairness, Turcafinwë might have been able, but Fëanáro had been loath to lose another son. He had forbidden any such action in a very heated argument. Indeed, it had been more heated than the one he had with Nelyafinwë at Losgar. Reluctant promises had been made, but the King had also overwhelmed his restless third son with work immediately after up until Ñolofinwë's return and Findekáno's disappearance. Now he wondered if he should have let Turcafinwë go, alone or with a company. Perhaps Nelyafinwë would not have been so ruined. Yet, this thought warred with another in his head – he could not have stood losing another son.

But Findekáno had done it without any help and against the will of his father. It was admirable, worthy of praise. Yet, Fëanáro felt discontent with Ñolofinwë's first son. His actions may have been great and noble, but the look on his face when he had gazed upon Fëanáro from the back of the eagle had sent chills through his spine. That the young elf had mustered up enough will to hack his own, most beloved cousin's hand off-

Still, Findekáno had been distraught over it as the healers had forced him to recount exactly what he had done. Ñolofinwë had held his half-brother's shoulders the entire time. It had been unnecessary and insulting. Fëanáro would not have hurt the one who returned his son to him against all the odds and a lost hand was better than endless torment at the hands of a murderer.

The smith shook his head, freeing it from such tangled musings. His son was returned and the relief that filled him was only upstaged by his wrath at what had been done.

Well he remembered the moment when he learned what had occurred. Barely woken from his own slumber that damned balrog had induced, he had called for Nelyafinwë with vengeance singing in his frenzied blood. It had been his second oldest who had answered, a grim look upon his countenance.

_"What?" he has asked, snappish and rearing to bite back at the monster that had bitten him. "What is it? Where is your brother?" When the elf had not answered, that crazed frenzy was replaced by something else. "Bring all your brothers to me. Now!"_

_It had taken a while – Turcafinw_ _ë had gone hunting (though his father suspected that it was not deer or rabbits that he was looking for) and F_ _ëan_ _áro_   _had ordered him to be brought back by the entire army if necessary._

_"The army is not as whole as it was," K_ _ánafinw_ _ë said whilst Ambarussa both had gone to fetch the other._

_"What has happened? Tell me," his father demanded. "Where is your brother?"_

Fëanáro had only ever struck his sons twice. Once in a misguided action at Losgar and once then in utter fear. While his sons had not forgiven him for the first, save the one whom he had struck (too much like his mother, like his grandfather), none there had decried the second. Kánafinwë had grabbed his hand, but it was as much to offer comfort as it was to stop it from happening again.

Much more of that day the smith did not remember. So grieved was he and wild and fey, desperate to regain his eldest before he lost him permanently too, that the healers had drugged him into sleep once more simply to keep him abed. The lock of copper hair brought by an enemy soldier he had kept clutched in his hand thereafter, refusing to let it go for anything.

Yet, to the dismay of some, he had also refused the ransom Moringotto had demanded and sent no further message to bargain. Kánafinwë and the Lords who counselled him had been wise – the Vala lied. Yet, too, Fëanáro was wise enough to know and fear that his decision was made by more than just wisdom. Hatred flooded his veins whenever he looked towards Angamando, but so did something else.

Thus, Nelyafiinwë had been left to the mercy of his captors.

The first letter had come after his return to the battlefields of Beleriand. It had been months before he was well enough to do so, and, even then, it was against the advice of both his sons and the healers. Still, Fëanáro would not be deterred. The orcs he had come across fell swiftly to his rage and grief. It was a small victory, one that had won them only a little more undisturbed land than the Noldor previously had. The letter itself had been found later in the mouth of a Sindar elf's severed head left outside their gates, dripping in blood both black and red.

 _To the Greatest of the Noldor,_ it had begun,  _I am pleased to hear of your recovery. I had thought you perished at the flames of my Balrog. No matter. You can be assured his punishment will be adequate for daring to do what was not his place to do. When the time comes it shall be a Vala who smites your flame, my dear one, I will make sure of it._

_But I speak of things that have yet to pass when I have not even spoken of the things that have already been! I am sure you long for news of my newest guest. I have done you one better – a sketch is enclosed painstakingly wrought just for you. I do hope you appreciate it. My little jailbird spent his best blood for it, I am sure._

And more than the lines of damning red that followed below was the use of the name Fëanáro himself had bestowed upon the dark Vala. The elf had succumbed to a tremendous fit of rage. He had screamed. Had torn the paper up where that cursed signature lurked and torn it up further until his son's lifeless face was in pieces so small no one could tell whose face it was. But Fëanáro knew. A father always did.

To the flames he had fed the pieces, one by one, cursing and weeping. By the time Kánafinwë and Curufinwë had appeared in the wake of panic, fearing, perhaps, that their father had gone mad once more, the Noldor King had fed the remaining possessions of his absent son to the fire as well.

"He is dead!" he had yelled. "He is dead. He is dead. He is dead."

Like a prayer to ward off some nightmarish thing, he had held onto those three words: he is dead, he is dead, he is dead. But he was not dead. His Nelyafinwë was not dead and now laid before him neither hale nor whole.

If he ever saw Nerdanel again, she would skin him alive and rightfully so.

"Oh! What have they done to you, Maitimo? My little Maitimo," he cried. The name tasted like ash on his tongue. Where to begin?

Where to begin?

His eyes scarcely knew what to settle on first now he had glanced up once more. The deep scarring on the skin around his eldest's wrist that likewise appeared on the skin around his ankles. Lighter scarring, but still damning enough, laid around his throat in a perfect circle. It was clear what these were from. Then, too, there was silver lines that danced over prone lips, over cheekbones and his son's jawline. The edge of whip marks and burns atop his shoulders where they peeped forth from the blankets. Another uglier scar across his throat that came from something more sinister than chains, though Fëanáro did not know what. Wounds across his face, some still fresh and raw from where he had no doubt turned his face into the rock to find some semblance of shelter from the elements. For the rest of his skin, there had been none. It was red and blistered and bruised, stretched too tight over the frame it hung on.

Nelyafinwë's nose, however, was the thing that most captured Fëanáro's attention. Once so straight and regal, it was now crooked like the foundations of a poorly built house. How many times had it been broken? It had been straight when he had last seen the younger elf.  _It was straight. It was straight…_

However much he wished it, it would not become straight again. The bone had healed but had done so crooked. To fix it would require another breaking.

So much pain. His son had suffered so much pain.

Fëanáro bit his hand to muffle the wail that ravaged his throat. Absently he noted that his son now had more freckles than before. He could hardly tell through the burned skin and the bruising.

More letters had followed that first. They were sporadic in appearance, sometimes a dozen appearing in the course of a few days and sometimes none at all for months until finally one was found attached to the headless corpse of one of his patrolling warriors. After the first thirty, Kánafinwë had begged him to read no more. All his sons had begged, frightened by what the dark Vala's words did to their father and in this their father heeded them. All the letters, bar the first, opened and unopened, had thus gone into a box in his forge.

What he would have given now to have read each and every one of them. What he would have given to have read none at all.

 _Damn you,_  he cursed,  _Damn you to the Pits where you kept my son and to the Void beyond it! Moringotto I named you and now I see just how well fitting and deserved it is. I will rend you apart more fully than Tulkas ever could! I will rip yours hands from your arms and yours arms from your shoulders so that you may never touch him with them again. I will rip your eyes from their sockets so that your foul gaze may never again rest upon him. Damn you and damn you again a hundredfold!_

But he did not swear this. Something stayed his tongue in its urge to declare unto Iluvatár himself the fate he would heap upon Melkor's head.

Still, rage was enough for now.

The fire in Fëanáro burnt hot and bright and he longed for a connection with the one before him. Crafty fingers stilled again where they could not bring themselves to touch, but elves had more than one way to connect. Almost unconsciously, the smith's mind reached out to brush softly against his son's like a fair day's slight breeze in Tirion, warm and kind and good. It was a mistake. Though locked in a deep slumber, Nelyafinwë's mind was a tempest of all the things that shadows wrought in the fair of face and heart.

At first there had been nothing. Fëanáro reached and there had been nothing to receive him, just an empty place with a sense of absence so strong that the elf almost recoiled from his task. But this was Fëanáro. He was greater than that. So he pushed forward a little more, still tentative and soft lest his eldest should think him an enemy. For a moment, nothing. Then the nothingness cracked and something terrified and hurting and rank with despair whirled past him, at him, through him and around him with no coherent thought bar one:  _Out! Out! Out!_

There was no strength to the presence, no strength to his son at all. In the span of a second the barriers around Nelyafinwë's mind rose and fell, and rose and fell, and did so once more. When risen they were iron clad or shaking. When fallen everything spilt forth in flashes too fast for Fëanáro to comprehend. And still that presence whipped about him, wild and feral and fearful and in pain. It was too shattered to grasp, too primitive and animalistic. Perhaps Turcafinwë would have better luck, but he was not there. An incessant wailing started, heard only by the two who were sharing minds. It grew louder, more desperate as the intruder lingered. There was agony in it, raw and undiluted and so potent that it felt as if the nerves of the other elf were on fire as well.

Fëanáro recoiled. He would remember this action with shame for many years after.

His son had not recognised him. He would remember this too.

(He had missed the moment in his immediate absence when the wailing had ceased long enough for one hesitant, clear thought to form:  _father?_ But its speaker was too weak to reach beyond the realms of his own ravaged mind.)

For a while the elven smith sat with his head in his hands, unable to process what he had just witnessed. It was- He had no words. It was a crime, a wrong, a vile and horrifying deed. It was an evil so abhorrent that it should have been unconceivable to anyone, even Moringotto. Someone had gone into Nelyafinwë's head without permission, someone had forced their way in and mutilated what they had found there as well as they had mutilated his son's body. Brief though his attempt to establish a connection had been, he had seen the scars on the other's psyche, great bleeding rents. Would they heal?  _Could_ they heal?

It was half with despair and half with determination that Fëanáro extended his fëa itself over the room, searching for that of the first child he had helped create. It took a while, but he found it glowing faintly in a shadowed corner of the ruined hröa that kept it.

_So faint…_

Like one trying to appear harmless to a wary dog, Fëanáro knelt down – though his physical self remained seated in that chair – and simply stayed there. The fëa before him was as mutilated as the mind and body that it sustained. Indeed, the rents upon it seemed greater, more vicious and wretched. The hurts dealt to this fëa had been deliberately cruel. So too were the rope-like shadows that clung to it, Elven and Valar-made. It was flickering madly and this, more than anything else, caused Fëanáro to weep.

The elf kept still and silent, not wanting to repeat the same mistake he had with his attempt at oswanë. For this he would be patient lest the consequence be greater. Vulnerable – that was the only way to describe his son, his Nelyafinwë. In the young elf the eternal flame given to all elf-kind by Iluvatár was very dim like a candle burnt down to its stub. One breath and in another life it would be blown out.

But dim though it was, Nelyafinwë's fëa was searching.

His father perceived this only after a long while had passed, when the fëa of his son nudged against his own ever so slightly. It was like an extended hand groping, half blind, for the only other thing in an otherwise empty room. Fëanáro's breath caught in his chest. Hesitantly, the smith opened himself to greet it and let love, though sorrow tainted, warm the embers of his fëa and that of the one who dwelt with him. The eternal flame of his son seemed to glow a little more solidly for it, a little more now tying him to the living world than a single worn thread.

_Nelyo-_

"Fëanáro! Are you deaf as well as dumb?"

With a curse, the King was pulled back into his body. He scowled at Lalwendë as she tapped the tray on his lap. "What," he growled, "Is so important that it required my immediate attention?"

To her credit, his half-sister simply raised an eyebrow. "I thought you might want to eat as you have not done so since this morning, I believe." Then, when he made no move to touch what she had brought, "You will not aid your son's recovery by letting yourself starve."

"Starve?" He laughed humourlessly and not a small bit without sanity. "My son is starved and half-starved again! You can count every rib on him and he was no doubt hanging on that forsaken mountain for years. Where were you with you tray of food when he was hanging there?"

Lalwendë regarded him with disdain. "Do not blame me for what happened to your son."

"Then do not blame me for all that happened on the Helcaraxë," he replied. He could have laughed again, almost with a dark glee, as his father's second daughter turned on her heel and stalked out of the room without another word.

Fëanáro rubbed his face. His mind had not felt quite right for a long time. Nerdanel would- But she was not there.

He looked at the tray on his lap. It had been kind of Lalwendë to bring him food unasked. The smith was not too proud to admit that he was too proud to beg food from either of his half-siblings and their followers. He was not too unaware of himself to know that he could not eat while his emaciated eldest laid in reach of him.

Taking up the cup of water and placing the rest of the tray with its reasonable contents on the floor (ignoring the whispered comments from the greatest depths of his mind that it was poisoned), the elf resumed his vigil. Once more he reached out with his fëa and once more he found his son.

From there the three days passed quickly, especially to Fëanáro who had not once left the side of his eldest son. If the healers complained, he did not hear of it and no one else dared ask him to leave. If they knew what he was doing, they did not comment on that either.

There was a pattern to things: Lalwendë would come with breakfast and to take away the dinner he had not eaten, though she did not speak to him again, angry as she still was; then would come the healers to hum and tut as they examined Nelyafinwë and changed his many bandages, fretting over his fever and the lack of healing of his traumatised stump; then a lull before more healers came to sing over their charge in the hopes that this might help, invoking many prayers to the Vala Lórien for all they had forsaken him – sometimes Fëanáro would also join this singing, softly enough that none could hear him but strong enough that even mountains could not block out its sound; another lull and more healers, before Lalwendë came again to replace the uneaten breakfast with a dinner that would also remain uneaten.

In all this time Fëanáro did not sleep. What moments were not spent singing or watching the healers with suspicious eyes were spent coaxing his son's fëa a little further into his embrace. Three days was not long enough to allow for any kind of success in this, but at least his son knew he was there.

There was a window in the room, though it had been shuttered to keep out the sun's burning rays as much as the cold winds that blew, and to keep in the herbal infusions and incense the healers had been burning ever since Nelyafinwë had been placed in their care. Still, the sun's light was strong and would dimly show through the shutters when risen. Now it began to come through once more, the fourth day of Fëanáro's stay.

He did not want to leave his son, no father would, but he would have to. This was a deal he could not break. Determined to steal every last moment he could, however, he refused to move until another should enter and ask it of him.

It was his half brother who came. Of course it was.

"When you are ready…"

For once muted in tone, Fëanáro nodded. "Shortly. I must bid farewell."

Still, it was a command as much as a request. One that Ñolofinwë, whatever else he currently thought of the King before him and whatever hurts the snow and wind had left him with, understood and obeyed. He left the room again, door closing softly behind him and footsteps fading away. There had been the scarcest trace of sympathy in his eyes.

 _How was I to know he would cross the Ice? The fool!_ He turned back to where Nelyafinwë laid prone.  _Our father's House is full of fools._

What had possessed his eldest son to attempt to treat with Moringotto, the son least like him and most like his mother, his  _grandfather_ from whom he had inherited his copper hair and temperament? Mahtan had not the wells of wisdom his daughter did, but he was wise nonetheless. Most definitely a competent teacher and father and grandfather whose advice, more often than not, was sought after in times of hardship and was now sorely missed.

Then again, Nerdanel had loved to regale how Mahtan had once stolen Aluë's favourite hammer and took it to bed after allowing himself to become incredibly drunk.

It was the beard, Fëanáro thought. It made the copper haired smith seem older than he truly was. Then again, what fool was he to equate age with wisdom? The Valar were far older than any Elf and yet they were far more prone to dimwittedness. To mistakes that hurt  _his_  family.

But he was stalling.

"Nelyo…" What to say? What he was feeling could not be expressed by words.

Closing his eyes, Fëanáro let his fëa speak what his mouth could not.  _My heart will weep to the time when we will meet again. Dream well, little one._

"Your half-uncle will care for you while I am gone," he said aloud on the off chance his son could hear. "Should you need me, however, I will come. You need only call."

Standing, the smith brushed his fingers gently against the hollowed cheek before him. The last time he had done so, both he and Nelyafinwë had thought the older to be dying, had believed it so fully that the former had asked the Oath to be sworn again and the latter had done so without question. Even in his anger, still lingering from Losgar, Nelyafinwë had sworn it again alongside his brothers. Such loyalty…

_What have I done?_

Refusing to think of the shadows that hung over his eldest's fëa, refusing to let tears fall now he was leaving, Fëanáro stepped through the room's door. He did so with great reluctance but did so nonetheless. Ñolofinwë was right, at least so much as the mood of his followers were concerned. It was far less dangerous for all that the Noldor's rightful King lingered no longer.

The room led out into a plain hall lined with other doors – rooms for the descendants of Finwë who had survived the crossing. They had brought Nelyafinwë to Ñolofinwë's dwelling, in part because it had been closer than the buildings for healing and in part because it was more isolated from the bustle of everyday life. In retrospect, it had been a wise decision. Anyone who was angry enough to mean harm to a son of Fëanáro would be less likely to attempt anything in the home of their own Lord whom they had sought to betray Fëanáro for. Ñolofinwë would not let harm befall his already severely ill nephew. Fëanáro knew he would not.

(He  _knew_ this, though that same small part of him that whispered about poison whispered about this too.)

Head held high, the King strode through the house as though it were his own (and it was in the sense he had built it years ago). Through the hall and into the main area that led to the entrance he went as though his heart was not almost failing with grief and fear. There was a trick to being seen as a King and in the thirty years passed, Fëanáro had mastered it. The gait. The position of his shoulders. The way to move as though he was sure of everything and afraid of nothing. It was different to being a Prince and yet it was not. The results were the same and they were not. (If it sometimes felt as though a hand rested on his shoulder, familiar and safe, a guiding presence to steer him right, then Fëanáro let that presence steer him.)

None of this impressed the elfling he came across.

Itarillë looked up from where she sat, her mother's hair and clear blue eyes familiar in such a way it was as though a ghost that had settled over the child. She bit her lip when she saw him. Frowned and pulled her doll closer to her.

It stung a little that the child should recoil from him.

"Mother drowned while we were crossing." Still worse was the bluntness only children could have. (So often he had preferred children because of this for children did not have the guile to lie and play conceited games.)

Fëanáro's lips turned down and an old ache returned to him with vengeance. "Losing one's mother is hard. They are given to us for a reason and no one can truly fill the void they leave when they are gone." In retrospect, that may not have been the best he could have said to a grieving child. Perhaps, then, the words his father had often repeated to him. "Know that she loves you still in the halls of Mandos where she now dwells. Nothing can ever quench a mother's love, not hurt or fear or death."

The Noldor King winced internally. They were still not his most eloquent words.

"Father says she still watches over me." But it seemed Itarillë had another matter on her mind. "He says you are to blame. Did you want my mother to die?"

Fëanáro shook his head in earnest. "Of course not. I wanted no one's mother to die. Well I know the pain of a child deprived of the one who birthed him, or her, into the world and I would not wish it upon anyone else"

"You burnt the boats," she pointed out.

"It was a mistake." To no else he would admit such a thing (though perhaps to his eldest son, if it would wake him from the terrible slumber he was caught in). "It was a mistake to burn the ships. I thought you would return home."

For Beleriand was not their home. Not the trees. Not the land. Not the creeks and brooks Huan and his master loved to dance in. There was the sun and the moon, and the stars of Varda above them, and across the sea the ones they had left behind.

For perhaps the first time, Fëanáro did not think of Nerdanel with disdain or hurt at her choice to remain behind. Even Mahtan he could not begrudge for his old mentor had loved Nelyafinwë, his Russandol, the best of all his grandsons and it would break his heart to see him now as surely as his mentee had when he had first turned his sword on his kin. This did not mean he missed the touch of his wife any less, nor the hearty laugh of her father.

No, Beleriand was not their home so long as family dwelt on opposite shores.

"What do you want?" The voice came sharp and full of contempt, though it was reigned in for the child who could also hear.

Fëanáro turned and saw his half-brother's second son staring at him, a deep frown creasing his forehead. Fëanáro stared back, head high once more and grey eyes like flint.

"You should be gone by now," Turkáno said.

"Where I should be is not your concern," his half-uncle replied. A nod of courtesy to Itarillë and he went towards the door to the house.

The other elf stepped in his path, every bit as foolish as his father. "It is my concern. Why are you still here?"

"Come now. Do you think that  _you_  could play at being King?" Fëanáro pushed past Turkáno without a second glance. Still, his next low spoken words rung clear. "Do well by her. She has no mother now, only you."

If the other elf was startled or outraged or otherwise moved by this, Fëanáro did not wait to see. If he noted the underlying message beneath the words, Fëanáro also refused to see. It would only carve an old hurt deeper into his heart should his half-brother's second child spur the advice.

The door led out to fresh air untainted by the smoke of herbs and Fëanáro breathed it in. The sun had not yet fully risen and the settlement itself was barely stirring to life – Ñolofinwë had chosen to keep to their deal to its strictest criteria. It was somehow amusing.

The smith strode over to the small stables at the end of the house's yard. His half-brother was waiting there with a horse in hand.

"The guards will lend you my sword at the gate," Ñolofinwë said. "I know in all the chaos from before you did not have yours with you."

It was true. They had been together arguing over a map of the known terrain in Angamando – too sparse for thirty years – when news of an infraction between their sides had reached them. Nearly too late they had arrived on horseback to Fëanáro's soldiers goading Ñolofinwë's who were chomping at the bit for a fight. Neither had taken their weapons, too hurried were they to try and stop a misunderstanding from turning into an all-out war. Then the eagle had come and the only weapons that were thought of were the ones applied to the hapless elf upon it.

Still. "I would have thought your guards would prefer I have no sword in case an orc came upon me."

Ñolofinwë looked like he had swallowed a sour grape. "I should say none of my guards would ever stoop to such a level, but I know you could kill an orc with your spite along so what difference would it make? Take your horse and get out of here."

"I am trusting you with my son, Ñolvo," the older of the elves said as he swung himself upon his great steed. The threat was very much implied.

The other's returning smile was as brittle as ice. "No wars shall be waged over your son between us. Be safe, brother."

"Be safe, half-brother," Fëanáro replied and spurred his horse into movement.

Through the settlement he rode, past the houses he had helped build, past Findaráto and his brothers as they returned from some errand. The youngest two regarded him with cold looks, but the face of Arafinwë's eldest remained blank. No doubt their insolent sister watched from some hidden corner with her haughty dignity. Of the rest of his kin, only Aredhel and Findekáno he had not seen. Of course, what they did was of no concern to him. He declined his half-brother's sword and went on his way.

About halfway to his own new settlement a figure met him, coming to dance around the legs of his swiftly irritated horse.

"And to I would have thought your master would be the first to greet me," Fëanáro said, bending down to scratch at Huan's ears. The hound looked at him and whined then resumed his mad barking. The elf sighed. "What trouble has he gotten himself into now? One son too ill to leave bed is one more than needed already. Alright," he said to Huan. "Lead on."

His third son's loyal pet seemed to slightly cease his rapid gait as an air of solemnity drew itself around Fëanáro like a cloak. This, at least, ensured the elf that the matter was not a grave one. If Turcafinwë were an elfling and they back in Tirion, he most likely would simply be stuck in a tree. Still, his child was no longer an elfling and it was not Tirion they were in.

Fëanáro urged his horse to go a little faster.

With Huan leading, it took no real time to find Turcafinwë and the mess he had gotten himself into. The sight of it pulled Fëanáro up short and his horse snorted irritably. The smith blinked, sombreness briefly chased away by bewilderment. " _You_ fell into a thornbush?"

"How is Nelyo?" Turcafinwë said, ignoring his father. "Is he awake yet? Has he said anything? Has Findekáno said anything? When can we see him?" he asked. Catching the grief that flitted over the other's face, he swallowed. "How bad is it?"

"Let me get you out of there first," Fëanáro replied.

"Father!" The young elf began struggling again, trying to tear himself free of the thorny branches that had entangled him. It only worsened the problem. "How is he? Answer me!"

"He lives," the elder replied. "Now be still. I will tell you no more until you are free."

Reluctantly, his third son did as bid. It was not an easy task and took longer than Fëanáro had expected, especially when Huan, in trying to help, had gotten tangled too.

"A fine pair you make," the Noldor King said as he regarded both with a critical eye. Both were scratched and bleeding, the master more than the hound.

Turcafinwë waved him off. "I've done worse simply riding a horse in a paddock. It will heal."

"Then let us return home, lest your brothers worry more of their family has disappeared."

But the younger elf stopped him with a hand to the shoulder and by sending Huan to block the path to his father's horse. "What of Nelyo? Tell me fully."

"I will tell you alongside your brothers," Fëanáro said.

"No!" And now his hasty temper rose to the surface. "You were the one who stopped me from going after him. If Findekáno can walk into Angamando and free him, then I certainly could have. That knowledge will haunt me for the rest of my life. Twice now I've done nothing as he was hurt; no more will I stand aside where my brother is concerned. Tell me now and tell me plainly of all his hurts."

Fëanáro had named him after his strength and it was his strength Fëanáro felt now as the other's fingers dug into his shoulder. "I am your King and Lord and father."

"I don't care! Tell me!"

"Then release me." Fëanáro waited until he did so, taking a moment to straighten his ruffled robes. "Your brother is unconscious still and will be for a while. His hurts are too numerous for me to list now, but his right shoulder and arm are of primary concern to the healers, as is his wasted state and laboured breathing."

"Why isn't he returning home with you?"

The smith regarded his son. "He is too ill to move for the foreseeable future. He will stay with your half-uncle until such time as he is."

"What?" Turcafinwë frowned. "You just  _left_ him there? You could have sent for one of us. You should have-"

"Enough, Turcafinwë," Fëanáro ordered. "I have my reasons and you will learn them when the rest of your brothers stand before me. I do not wish to waste time imparting news more times than is necessary."

His son huffed and turned to grab his discarded bow. He pulled himself up onto his horse in a similar wordless fury. Turcafinwë had never needed words; his actions had always spoken for him and the stiffness of his body were message enough to his father.

Fëanáro refrained from sighing in exasperation, nearly at the end of his mental fortitude as it was, and hulled himself onto his own horse. So they rode onwards in silence, Huan loping joyfully between them.

"How did you fall into that thornbush?" he finally asked, a truce of sorts.

Turcafinwë, his anger usually as quick to leave as it came, shrugged. He was no Morifinwë, but his face turned red as well. "I was chasing a deer."

A raised eyebrow. "And?"

"I chased it right into that blasted thicket," the other mumbled.

Now Fëanáro did sigh, shaking his head as he did so. "I see you failed to catch the deer for your troubles."

"I will catch it on the morrow," Turcafinwë declared. "With the limp it had, it will not be getting far and will be easy enough to track that even Curufinwë could do so."

"I have no doubt. Still, it is unwise to be so unaware of your surroundings. You should not be so reckless here," Fëanáro admonished.

"Huan would have stayed with me until I got myself free."

"Huan cannot defend you from everything." The older elf looked at his son. "Be more careful. Such carelessness will get you killed."

"Like it almost got you?"

Well named his third son had been by his mother: Tyelkormo or hasty-riser. She had been referring to his quick temper mostly, which had been as fast to come as the trouble he had made as a babe still in swaddling. Yet, it suited other parts of his character as well. Too often he spoke without thinking.

Fëanáro stopped short and sent him a heated glower. "Do not use my misfortunes as an excuse, unless you want to be confined to the house for the foreseeable future."

"I am an elf grown," Turcafinwë growled.

"You are still my son," Fëanáro replied, ending the argument there.

Another silence grew between them, interrupted only by Huan's panting as he ran to keep up. The old ache in the older elf's shoulders and back made itself known, worse, no doubt, from his extended period of sitting in that hard-backed chair. The whip of the balrog who had struck him down had to have been enchanted with some black magic for the scars still lingered even with his elvish healing. Turcafinwë saw him wince but said nothing. The gratefulness his father felt at this would have swiftly faded if he had seen the look upon his son's face as the fair-haired elf concentrated on something else.

"Where's your sword?" he asked suddenly.

Fëanáro kept his focus ahead. "At home. I didn't have time to fetch it when the scuffle began."

Turcafinwë looked aghast. "And they did not offer you one upon your return here nor any guard as accompaniment? You are their King!"

"They offered," his father replied. "I declined. I am well versed in combat by hand should the need, highly unlikely in any case, arise."

"Nelyo was the best of us and look what happened to him."

"Your brother was besieged by a force ten times that of his own," Fëanáro snapped. "Do not seek to blame him for what happened."

"I'm not!" Turcafinwë cried, but no more was said on the matter.

The guards at the gate greeted their King and prince with short nods, eyes turning back to the road they had travelled upon. The other elves they passed on the path to their house were more open with their respect, bowing low to their King and prince, though Fëanáro barely took the time to greet them in return and Turcafinwë failed to do so at all. Indeed, their journey home was hasty and like the gales that blew over the plains they had found Fëanáro crashed through the door with Turcafinwë close behind.

Four expectant faces looked up at him.

"Where is Curufinwë and Morifinwë?"

"Father's finishing up at the forges," Telperinquar answered from where he sat around their table. "He wanted to organise things for your return."

Fëanáro nodded. That was well enough. While his fifth son was the only one to inherit his skill at smithing and the patience for it (Pityafinwë, for example, had the former but not the later: he could shape any hunk of metal into a fine goblet or circlet provided he could do so in as long as it took for an elf to blink), Curufinwë was very different in his method of organisation. The younger elf favoured the 'so long as  _he_ knew what was where' approach of his mother – yet another ultimately Mahtan inspired trait. His father, on the other hand, was meticulous. Every tool had its place. Ever ore type was stored separately in a labelled container. So it was that his son always found the need to tidy up whenever he found himself using Fëanáro's forge.

"And Morifinwë?" he asked again.

Telufinwë snorted. "Moryo is chasing down a few small discrepancies in the logs that kept count of how many leather shoes we had stored. He might be a while."

"At least until Turko deigns to tell him Huan ate them," Kánafinwë said dryly.

"Only when Pitya admits he left the door open for Huan to get in," Turcafinwë shot back.

"That mutt could have opened it for all you know," sulked the brother Turcafinwë had accused. "He's intelligent enough."

" _He's_ -"

"Enough!" Fëanáro frowned at his bickering sons. "Do you want news of your brother or not?"

His sons looked appropriately abashed. Telperinquar bit his lip. "I should fetch father."

"Yes," his grandfather said. "Pitya, get Morifinwë. Telvo, get something to patch up your brother who thought himself good enough to go frolicking in a thornbush."

The twins both snorted at this. Fëanáro ignored the scowl Turcafinwë shot him and sat down at the table, resting his chin on his steepled hands. His sharp grey gaze locked itself onto his eldest son there.

"Is there anything pressing that I should know about that occurred while I was gone?" he asked.

Kánafinwë shook his head. "Things have been subdued here. The anger and lust for a fight from before both have faded. Most simply wanted to inquire after Nelyo's health. Someone started a vigil for him on the first night of his return and they have been holding one every night since. You wouldn't have heard them, but they have been singing too. You might hear them tonight."

It warmed Fëanáro's heart to know that those who followed him could care so much for his sons. Perhaps, with enough voices singing, Lórien would hear them and answer their prayers. "Is there anything else?"

"They are anxious for news." Kánafinwë bit his lip, an old habit he had only recently regained. "Tell me, please. Does he live?"

And the anguish in his golden voice Fëanáro could not stand. "Yes. For now."

His son sat back down at this.

"He'll pull through, Káno," Turcafinwë said doggedly. "Nelyo would never let us down."

Silence followed those naïve words, filling the room like an unwanted guest. In it, Kánafinwë began humming a simple tune. It was one Fëanáro recognised and knew to be one sung to Iluvatár that the great being might himself intervene on behalf of another. Though the memories were hazy, he remembered it being sung around his mother's bed as she faded. If Turcafinwë recognised it, he only responded by more doggedly clinging to his belief in his oldest brother.

 _This world will break him._ It was a pessimistic thought, more pessimistic than any Fëanáro had ever had. But it could be nothing but true.

Huan laid his head on his master's lap and the father of his master begged him to watch out for his son. The hound, as if he had heard, snuggled his head closer into Turcafinwë's belly.

The minutes passed by, each one as filled with tension as the ones that had come before. Kánafinwë continued his humming until Turcafinwë snapped at him to stop, the younger fiddling with anything he could reach until his brother told him to stop. It almost seemed like a blessing when Curufinwë entered with his son, the former still covered in dirt. Then Ambarussa appeared dragging Morifinwë behind them whose protests died when he caught sight of his father.

"Nelyo?" the ruddy faced elf asked almost breathlessly as the others took their seats. The same question danced in the eyes of all the others present.

"Nelyo lives, but has not woken," the head of their House said. "His injuries are numerous, and the healers do not know when he will wake. For now, there is nothing more we can do."

"What are his injuries?" Kánafinwë asked.

Fëanáro pressed his lips together. "Bruises and cuts, many superficial and many not. The worst of it is on his back for he was hung from the face of Thangorodrim when your cousin found him. A few cuts are infected, but the healers are confident this will quickly pass. He is malnourished, severely as you must have seen. His right shoulder and spine are also out of alignment for it was from this arm, and this arm alone, that he was hung. Even now the healers sing to fix this. There is also much scarring – I do not know if all of it will heal."

At each new hurt he listed, the faces of his six youngest sons and his grandson paled further. Ambarussa clutched hands and leaned in on one another as though each could shield the other from his words. Turcafinwë's petting of Huan had grown more vicious until the hound growled and his master checked himself. Telperinquar had succumbed to his father's grasp, pressing his face against the chest of the now stone-faced smith. Morifinwë cursed and cursed again at every new piece of information and Kánafinwë- If he had not been sitting, the musician would have collapsed.

"There is more," their father said grimly.

"More?" Pityafinwë cried in disbelief. "What more could there be?"

There was much more – a crooked nose and crooked fingers, a crooked leg the healers had broken once more to set straight so that Nelyafinwë had a chance of walking. A missing rib from where Fëanáro had counted them in horror. A dim fëa and ravaged mind. But there was one hurt more grievous and more pressing to discuss.

"I want you to know this from me first," he said, face turning stern. "There will be talk of it no doubt, but gossip has a way of twisting things into what they are not. Your cousin, Findekáno, was forced to cut off your brother's right hand." Amidst the cries of shock and outrage and grief, the smith continued. "He found Nelyafinwë chained to a mountain by his wrist and no dagger or sword or word or song he tried could break it. Nor could he free the chain itself, so deep was it nailed into the mountainside. Perhaps if he were a smith… But he is not, and he did what was necessary."

"But-"

"What Findekáno has done is a great deed," Fëanáro declared, cutting Curufinwë off. "None of you will give him grief over this."

Kánafinwë shifted. "What if Nelyo should die from the wound?"

"Then he will not die alone and in the clutches of the Enemy," Morifinwë snapped, his face reddening. It was clear he was furious, yet, for all his volcanic temper, he had always been amongst the more reasonable of Fëanáro's sons.

"Your brother will not die," Fëanáro said and this he was more certain of than anything else he knew.

The others digested this with some small relief.

"Where is he?" Telufinwë asked in the lull that followed. "Did you not bring him home with you?"

"Nelyo's too ill to move," Turcafinwë said dully.

"He is right," Fëanáro cut in quickly before any of his other sons could protest. "Ñolofinwë has agreed to care for your brother until he is well enough to survive the journey without any irrevocable harm."

"Then who is to stay with him?" It was a logical question that Morifinwë had asked, but one that his father had been dreading.

"No one."

"What?"

"How can you say that?"

"What do you mean  _no one_?" Kánafinwë's voice was the loudest.

Fëanáro held his ground. "The situation-"

"How can you expect us to abandon our brother again, our injured brother?" Turcafinwë yelled. "It is bad enough that you left him. I will not."

He stood but the action stoked his father's fire into an inferno.

"Sit down," he raged, though his words were not yelled. He turned his ire on the rest. "The situation is complicated. My half-brother's followers are unhappy with us at best."

Curufinwë shifted. "You think they mean our brother harm?"

"It is possible," Fëanáro said. "But less possible if none of us are there to incite their anger. Treacherous though my half-brother is, he would not harm Nelyo anymore than he would harm another sickly elf and he will not allow anyone else to harm him either. He is in a precarious position already with his people for having agreed to house your brother in the first place and more for letting me stay there for as long as I did. I don't care what trouble he is in, but it is best for Nelyafinwë that he remains in power. So we will do as he has asked and stay away.  _All_ of us, including you or else I will be forced to confine you to the walls of this settlement. Should any of you disobey me in this then the consequences will be severe."

"But it could be months before he is well enough to return!" Telufinwë exclaimed.

It could well be more than that, but Fëanáro had enough tact no to say as such. "It is only until he wakes," he said instead. "I will negotiate another deal upon that moment. Until then, you will do as I say even if I must make you swear it."

"Yes, father," his six sons muttered and Telperinquar gave his assent as well.

"There is no need for us to swear," Curufinwë added almost snidely. Fëanáro ignored him.

"I will be receiving reports daily from your half-uncle and the healers who are responsible for your brother's care," he said. "If there is anything further you wish to know then ask me. If there is anything you know that might help, then tell me so I might pass it on."

"They could use him as a hostage," Morifinwë pointed out.

Fëanáro knew this already. He would simply have to trust his brother. "There is nothing we can do about it now. He cannot be moved." The elf sighed and regarded his sons and grandson with sad eyes. "Pray for your brother, that his recovery might be all the swifter. For now, however, take some time to yourselves then go about your duties as usual. Our people look to you after me and in these dark times they need guidance. I will tell them of Nelyafinwë tomorrow."

"What of you?" Kánafinwë asked. "You looked tired. Will you rest?"

"Have some food brought to me," the smith said. "I will be in my forge. I am not to be disturbed for the rest of the day. You may leave as you will."

His sons did just that, Curufinwë immediately sweeping Telperinquar off to oversee a building project that had just begun. Morifinwë strode out with his book and a quill in hand, intent as ever on getting to the bottom of their missing leather stores. Unsurpisingly, Turcafinwë fled with Huan back to the forest, taking the sniggering Ambarussa with him.

Kánafinwë lingered for a moment, stroking absently at where a locket hung around his throat that Fëanáro knew contained the lock of copper hair the elf had saved from his father's madness, though this fact went unspoken by all. His second son seemed like he was going to speak. His mouth went so far as to sound the first syllable, but then closed to silence once more.

"Yes, Kánafinwë? What is it?"

The younger elf pressed his lips together and all but fled the room. His father sighed. He would question his son later. For now his fingers itched to wield a hammer.

Stripping out of his dirtied robes and down to his breeches and boots, Fëanáro took up a leather apron and donned it. From there he went to his forge, tutting at the mess Curufinwë had left. It did not take long to clean and the familiar process soothed some of his raw nerves. The rest he beat out on a hunk of metal once he had eaten. His grief and anger and fear he beat out too, working himself into that mindless focus he often sought refuge in before. So he passed the rest of the day well into the evening.

Then the singing started as Kánafinwë had said it would.

His second son's golden voice rang clear in the night, beseeching mercy for his brother, but it was not alone. Not all the voices sung well. Some were as tuneless as a gull on the coast. Yet all sung with sincerity, with a plea in their voice and a prayer on their lips. Like the song of birds at dawn and dusk, the sound rose and fell and grew in number, the power of it formed by the sheer will of those who sung. And the song itself was as an elf kneeling before their Lord:

 _"O, praised be mighty L_ _órien_

_that he look down on all_

_'neath Varda's endless silver stars_

_where evil's shadows fall._

_O, praised be mighty L_ _órien_

_that he might hear our song_

_and answer true the prayers we sing_

_to mend a grievous wrong._

_Have mercy, mighty L_ _órien,_

_for our beloved Prince_

_who dwells in that sweetest limbo_

_where others passed on since._

_Take him not like his grandfather,_

_our once beloved King,_

_but save him from the dreary halls_

_and him from limbo bring._

_Sooth his hurts, ease his pain, we ask,_

_we plead, we beg of you;_

_repair the flesh and knit the skin -_

_make our poor Prince anew."_

On and on it went, the same verses repeated as a mantra that might reach beyond the mountains shielding Valinor.

Fëanáro put down his hammer. Took it up again to smash to pieces the sword he had been forging. A breath later the elf instead stood back and let it cool. It was a crude thing, ugly even by a child's standards, still it would suffice. A base was all he needed to work with for now, a skeleton to build upon – no Valar-killing weapon could be crafted in a single night, but for his kin dead and sleeping the great smith would try. He had made the Simarils, this he could make too, though the required magic alone might kill him.

Fëanáro smiled at the flames in his forge. His son would wake and that thrice-damned Vala would pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song sucks, but ah well. The farewell Feanor says to Maedhros is an actual farewell Tolkien made in Quenya (translated to English). 
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed.


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as Fëanáro left, Findekáno had made for the room where Maitimo laid. Lalwendë grabbed his arm, staying him to his great annoyance.

"Not until you have slept," she said sternly, taking note of the dark circles beneath her nephew's eyes.

Findekáno looked at her mournfully. "I cannot."

"Try," she said. "Ask Ewinadur or another healer for something to aid you if you must. Or must I? I will do it, nephew, prince and lord though you may be."

"I believe you," he laughed, just as he had in Tirion at his aunt's needless fussing. But the laugh quickly grew tired. "I- I simply cannot."

Lalwendë regarded him again, this time more closely. His eyes were darkly circled, bruised purple, though not sunken in like his poor cousin's. Nor was the bruising so deep as it had been during the worst moments on the Helcaraxë when hunger gripped their bellies and ice drew the very warmth from their bones. But of the nights after Arakáno had passed-

It had been her who had held her brother in his grief. It had been wretched indeed, more wretched than his grief in the darkness where tears went unseen and fear made even the sternest of hearts quail. For what was the grief for a father passed compared to the grief for a son?

Ñolofinwë had been strong until his remaining children had turned to each other for comfort. Then he had collapsed and remained there weeping at the folly of the ways of the Noldor. How sweet and distant the stars had seemed there in that moment, blinking silver above them as solemnly as the face of Mandos himself. How would the Vala greet a kinslayer? A question that had haunted the snow and the winds it blew on, all grey in the near lightless world.

Anairë should have been there. It should have been Ñolofinwë's wife stroking his hair, holding his face tenderly, letting him sob without judgement for all he was a Lord of his people. It should have been Anairë that shared the sorrow of parents bereft, not a spinster sister. Not her. Not her…

With an indiscernible heft of breath, Lalwendë took Findekáno's face up in her hands. His hair was tangled and the gold ribbons absent – for an elf so often meticulous about his hair these were concerning signs indeed. But his eyes, they were what concerned her truly. Bruised in flesh beneath, but skittish in their blue depths. Haunted even, though she knew not what by. A shadow lurked there in the light of those eyes, dimming a spirit that had been nobly wrought.

"Speak to me, nephew," she begged. "Tell me what ails your valiant heart."

They were words spoken in vain, for Findekáno averted his eyes and tore his face away.

"I will be with Maitimo," he said and like a ghost slipped into the sickroom and its fog of incense and anguish. The shadow upon his fëa seemed to grow heavier as he did so, and at this Lalwendë frowned.

The daughter of Finwë crept to the door that had swung shut once more, carefully prising it open to peer inside. The chair Fëanáro had occupied now seated her nephew in full. Her other nephew, only half a one (and that was a phrase now too true about so many things), laid as he had been for the past three days upon the bed. Findekáno grasped the covers at his side, head bent, shoulders slumped, and eyes riveted upon that thin, slack face. He was humming, that valiant, reckless elf, some silly child's song she did not recognise coming to fill the room.

It was a sharp voice that dragged her back from the sombre scene. Stealing one last glance at her nephews, Lalwendë shut the door and quickly moved to find another. A passing thought invaded her head – her brothers had too many children between themselves.

 _And Ingo is not even here to look after his!_ But the elf refused to think of him even more than she refused to allow herself to dwell on thoughts of Fëanáro for he, at least, was here and thinking of him was unavoidable.

A door closed somewhere at the front of the house and the sharp voices faded to murmuring. Drawing her strength, Lalwendë came upon Turkáno and his daughter.

"Is everything well?" she asked.

Turkáno rubbed Itarillë's head, much to her annoyance, and straightened to his full towering height. It was his bed her eldest nephew now occupied in his slumber. Turkáno had offered it not out of graciousness, but a pragmatic realisation – resources were still used as sparingly as possible and only he, now poor Arakáno was dead, stood taller than Fëanáro's eldest son. In short, it was the only bed his cousin could fit on. For now, the other elf was bunking with his daughter.

"That traitor king was merely giving his departing blessings," Turkáno said.

Lalwendë frowned. She knew what her brother was like. "Is there anything I or your father needs to know?"

"Nothing of importance," came the reply, though his eyes gave away the fact that some idea was churning away in his head.

"What of you, little Rillë? Did you exchange anything with him?"

The girl shook her head. Her blue eyes hid her thoughts better than her father's.

Lalwendë forced a smile. "Very well then. Let us dwell no more on the matter! Rillë, I think your Artanis was looking for you by the lakeside. I believe she said something about braiding hair and weaving sails?" To her nephew she said in a lower voice, "I need to speak to you."

"Oh! Yes," Itarillë cried as remembrance dawned on her young face. "I am going to be late! Thank you great-aunt Lalwen." Then she was off like a hare, through the door and down the path that lead to the rest of their encampment.

Turkáno watched her go, only admonishing her headlong, unladylike gait once. "I don't know which should concern me more: Artanis giving her lessons in anything or Irissë promising to teach her how to hunt."

"Irisse knows what she is doing," Lalwendë said. Then reconsidered. "Most of the time."

"And I would shudder to think of her sweet little face wearing the haughtiness of my cousin," Turkáno muttered, mostly to himself. "One elleth like Findaráto's sister is bad enough."

Lalwendë tutted noncommittedly. Itarillë was, thankfully, more like her mother had been in temperament – she had not the pride of Finwë's line (for Lalwendë was not foolish enough to think that overt pride belonged to Fëanáro's House alone).

The girl had grown on the Helcaraxë and was almost a girl no longer, but a full-blown Lady in body and fëa. In truth, they had all grown on the Grinding Ice for such hardships forced the abandonment of pettiness and childishness both. There were many elves now whose faces were less round after the crossing, whose eyes less naïve and warier, whose hearts were not so easily fooled by the promises of friends and kings. But none had bloomed as Itarillë had, at least not to the eyes of her dotting kin.

Lalwendë wondered if Tyelperinquar had matured to the same extent. Likely he would have matured more. He had been no babe when the Burning had occurred and the Lady wondered in passing if Fëanáro had seen him hold a torch as well.

There were some things no child should experience.

"How is she?"

"She has been having night terrors again," Turkáno said tonelessly.

Lalwendë shifted. "Her mother?"

"Always." It was a traumatic thing to see one's own parent drown. It was a traumatic thing for a husband.

"How are you faring?" she dared ask, her expression gentle, though turned slightly away so as not to make him feel pitied.  _Yet another duty Anairë is not here to fulfil._

Turkáno pursed his lips and his chin lifted. His eyes, though, had softened in the years passed. "As well as I can. You wanted to speak to me?"

But his unwillingness to give voice to the ache in his heart had not softened in the slightest. Lalwendë was caught between the desire to grit her teeth and the desire to heave a sigh. One matter at a time, she decided. Trying to break the glacier that had formed as a fortress around Turkáno's emotions was a task she had been throwing herself at for years, that all those of Finwë's House who had survived the crossing had. For herself there was little progress. For others, namely Findaráto and Irissë, progress had been slow but there. It was progress. It had also become the norm. For Findekáno…

His change now was abrupt and disturbing. Even on the Ice he had not become so withdrawn. At least with Turkáno they knew what the cause had been. But Findekáno-

"It is about your brother," Lalwendë finally said.

"Ah." Large hands came to steeple themselves in front of an equally large chest. "I suspect he is in with our cousin now that  _he_ is gone?"

Lalwendë tweaked her lips weakly. "You know him too well."

"And you are hoping I know him even better."

"He is not sleeping," the Lady said. "He is morose and quiet too. If he were you, perhaps that would not be of such concern. Yet, he is not. Your father worries. He and Findekáno have had their differences, but he was always a dutiful son. Now the captains tell him that his eldest has seen to them only once, seen to the fortress walls not at all, and spoken to no scouts of what he knows of Angamando The map makers have scarcely seen him. The smiths are still asking after the sword he lost-"

"And the builders are complaining of his lack of attention," Turkáno said. "He needs to be careful. Already there are whispers starting."

"What whispers?" his aunt asked sharply.

The elf shrugged. "The kind of whispers there always are about first sons never seen amongst the people."

Lalwendë knew well what 'whispers' there had been of Fëanáro, knew them better than any of the third generation of her father's House. Then there had been the things said not in whispers, but aloud of a Prince who was wrongly obsessed with what no longer was. Too late they had understood. Too late she had understood. Though she had never been cruel, there was still a line between sympathy and empathy: one was pity, the other-

But Fëanáro had burned the ships. Even grief was no excuse for that.

She thought for a moment. Perhaps grief was what ailed her errant nephew. She said as much to her second brother's second son.

"It is to do with our cousin," Turkáno said, his face grim. "But I do not think it is solely to do with how he still sleeps so deeply in that limbo between here and the more peaceful rest of death."

"Do you have suspicions? You are his brother and closest sibling in age-"

"Yet, I was never that close to him and perhaps I never will be. Brothers we may be, but our temperaments differ enough that sometimes it feels as though a barrier sits between us that is impenetrable." Now Turkáno laughed unpleasantly, finding a dark sort of humour in something that was not humourous at all. "The best to ask after Finno's own mind has always been Maitimo, but we cannot ask him and it is for this reason that he is the cause of trouble in the first place."

Lalwendë sighed. "Perhaps Findaráto could decipher something from your brother's behaviour. He is good with people."

"Or Artanis," Turkáno pointed out. "It is hard to hide anything from her for long." He rubbed his head wearily. "If you will excuse me, dear aunt, there are some projects I need to oversee. We need to extend the healing wards and the granaries, and add new houses along the shores of the lake. We are in dire need of more wood that we do not yet have, though the Sindar here were kind enough to point our carpenters to the best trees to cut. Stone would be preferable, but we have not the time – we will just have to insulate with what furs and oilskin we can. Perhaps using straw as insulation..."

For a moment Lalwendë said nothing. Then she reached out a hand to cup his elbow, too short to comfortably reach his shoulder. "The winters here are not as harsh as the Grinding Ice. We have experienced several now and know this to be so."

Turkáno gave her a look half-wild and half-grieved. Now she had two nephews with haunted eyes. "And what if there blows a gale from the west carrying snow and ice and cold?"

"Then I will dance naked in front of all your father's favoured Lords." Lalwendë smiled. "Don't think I won't. I am sure you remember when I went naked in my father and your grandfather's own court."

"At the behest of the sons of Fëanáro." The words were not as heated as they could have been.

Finwë's daughter shrugged. "A bet is a bet and I lost. Turcafinwë and his eldest brother had to go naked too. My point remains, however. You worry over nothing. The Helcaraxë cannot reach us here in anything more than dreams."

Turkáno sighed, his tall shoulders slumping. "Perhaps you are right. Thank you, dear aunt, for your words of wisdom if not for your stories of your ill spent youth." He pressed a quick kiss to her cheek and flounced to the door out of reach of her swatting hands. There he paused, brow creased with a lighter sort of thought. "Did grandfather take you to task for your antics?"

"He certainly would have had he not trained a certain grandson to be so apt at diplomacy. I had never seen him so disheartened by the proof of how gifted one of his own kin was at debating," she grinned. The grin quickly fell when her nephew finally exited the house.

The memory was a fond one in truth. Yet, now it hurt like shards of ice that cut numb fingers as broken glass might cut a foolish elf. It was true there had been no punishment – no one had been able to refute the reasoning put forth by one copper haired elf without committing blasphemy against Ilúvatar and insulting every elf who had been Awakened, including Finwë. That the elf who had been doing the systematic reasoning had been very well-shaped had not helped. Nor had the inability of every Lord present to meet her eyes. In the end her father could do nothing but laugh and make her and her eldest nephew promise to never do such a thing again (for Turcafinwë there was no promising; he was shameless, had always loathed court and very early on had learnt how to use nakedness as a ploy to get out of attending it). Her father had possessed such a full and warm laugh.

Thrice tainted was the memory now. Once for the nephews that had betrayed her and set her feet towards the Ice. Once for the nephew who now could not be called well-formed by any save the most cruel. And once for her father, her beloved father gone to the halls of Mandos and away from her side.

Wiping away an errant tear, Lalwendë lifted her chin and went about her day. She found the head of the servants of their house and discussed the merits of her brother to a chair and forcing food down his stubborn throat. Hauranis was a good friend and an even better housekeeper, she could very nearly look Turkáno in the eye as she ordered him, his brother and their father to move furniture to her pleasure. That her shoulders stood broader than theirs and her arms stronger never seemed to matter; in Hauranis' opinion the males were there to aid any female in need of doing heavy lifting.

"Your brother will eat soon enough," came her words of wisdom. "If there is anything I know about our male brethren it is that their stomachs always rule them in the end."

It was a questionable piece of advice, but fair all the same. Hauranis had more experience in dealing with suitors than her. A giant figure she might have cut, but the elf was an exquisite cook.

Once their business had been finished, Lalwendë moved onto several of the lesser maids, pressing one for a concoction of valerian root or poppy to be delivered with tea to their Lord's eldest son. She had always made good on her threats. Several complaints were made, all noted and dealt with. Then she wandered back into the hall again that contained the rooms for sleeping. The door to Turkáno's old room opened before she had grasped its handle.

"My Lady." The elf coming out of it bowed, escaped incense curling around him in the heady aroma of sage, lavender, hyssop and athelas. The elf himself smelled strongly of yarrow and garlic, a smell that grew more potent as he raised his hands in a gesture of respect. His name was Ewinadur, one of the elves who had followed Finwë to Valinor and the head healer of the elves who had followed Ñolofinwë across the Helcaraxë. In all likelihood he had just been in to change his charge's bandages.

"How-"

"Findekáno is sleeping," Ewinadur interrupted with a knowing smile. "I am afraid it may have been something other than your tea that brought him to Irmo's realm. We were burning chamomile before."

Lalwendë looked at him only half accusingly. "You knew."

"Of course." The old elf bowed his head. "I would have preferred valerian for a deeper sleep, but it would be too potent for Maitimo's system to handle."

"He is that ill?"

"Aye. Even the chamomile we burnt only a little, just enough to tip Findekáno's exhausted mind into rest." His nose wrinkled as he brought a hand up near his face then thought better of it. "It is to be expected. Maitimo's hröa is delicate, fragile even. Much of the damage to his system he took from that cliff I would wager, and the consequences of the loss of his hand have brought him to the brink of what his body can withstand."

"Is it healing at least?" Lalwendë asked. She shuddered still at the image of that stump, so unnatural and bright red, covered in blood as it had been at the time.

"The bandages are still spotted with blood," the healer replied. "As are the ones on his back and feet." It was a healer's answer, very much hesitating from giving good news lest it should prove false later. Tolerance for lies had died on the Ice, even the ones that meant well.

"Will he recover?" came the aunt's next words. "Ever?"

"Will we ever return to Aman?" Ewinadur answered with a grunt that was telling of his prognosis.

Lalwendë looked east, thinking of her sister and her mother who had remained behind in stubborn mourning. She thought too of her youngest brother, though still this was hard for in a way he had betrayed them as surely as Fëanáro had. She thought of Mandos' Doom and her half-brother's fiery words that had sung so sweetly in the darkness when all else had seemed to fail:

_"Fair shall the end be, though long and hard the road!"*_

A bastard though her half-brother might be, petty and spiteful and fey, he possessed a great vision for the future. Not foresight as his mother had, as Artanis and others of Finwë's House had to varying degrees. Perhaps Fëanáro did possess this talent too, though Lalwendë had no knowledge if he did. Rather, she had seen the way he had woven a world to be with words alone, great and epic and free. Tangible enough that she could still taste that freedom on her tongue.

"I shall believe there is hope," she said.

Ewinadur bowed his head. "As you will, my Lady."

He went on his way and Lalwendë took a moment to push the door open and see for herself. Aside from the young healer now sitting vigil, there were only two others in the room. Findekáno was indeed asleep on a chair, a pillow generously propped between his neck and the back of the chair he was slumped in. Her other nephew was caught still in that unnatural sleep. Blankets covered the worst of his injuries, but his face laid slack and grey and sunken. His eyes were still closed – an unnatural sleep.

She glanced to Findekáno again. His blue eyes were glazed, but visible.

Slumping against the doorway, Lalwendë berated herself for her foolishness. That did not stop the relief from washing over her. To lose another son so soon- Ñolofinwë was a true leader, able to keep marching through gales and blizzards without a crack in his determined visage, but everyone had their breaking point. Lalwendë was determined that his eldest son (and his other children and grandchild) would not become his. An ambitious goal, perhaps, in a land such as Beleriand, but she would not see another of her kin taken by shadows if she could help it.

 _You were always the most reasonable of your brothers,_ she thought with a strange fire in her heart, looking once more to the bed.  _Be reasonable now. Wake up and help me. You are the supposed to be the elder._

But thought words without Oswanë were like raindrops against a stone wall. Nothing in the room changed.

Lalwendë turned and closed the door. She had her fill of sorrow on the Helcaraxë.

The duties of the right-hand Lady of the Lord of a people called her more incessantly now. Like a soldier, Finwë's daughter went to meet them. Let it never be said that she feared the annals logging their expenses or those counting the taxes received from their still new taxation system. Let it never be said that she feared the fields where crops were grown and harvested or the storehouses where food for winter was kept or the schedule kept by stern-faced guards around the settlement. Let it never be said that Lalwendë feared the builders or healers or even crafters, however skilled they were.

_Ai, crafters…_

"I will say again, if my word does not please you then take the issue up with your Lord," the daughter of Finwë repeated, only barely managing to keep the weariness from her voice.

The carpenter before her crossed his arms, a frown on his face. He went by the name of Lission and from Findaráto's followers he came. It was this latter fact that was making dealing with the elf's complaints a hassle. While he accepted her status as the daughter of Finwë and the sister of Ñolofinwë, he did not accept her word as that of his Lord – or Lady as the case was. Even in their own settlement the Noldor were ever divided. It would be depressing if it were not so infuriating.

Lission's reply was curt and much the same as all his other replies had been, following along the lines of gratitude for her input but discontent with the outcome and the one delivering it. So when Lalwendë spotted her three gold haired nephews riding up to the house she felt absolutely no guilt in the relief she felt as she waved down the eldest of them to join the preverbal slaughter.

"I was hoping for your opinion on a matter," she said as Findaráto dismounted. "Lission here, it is Lission, yes? Lission here has had a dispute with several other carpenters about how to go about building the frame for the new barracks your uncle commanded be built."

Lission explained the problem. Findaráto gave his answer, one much like the one Lalwendë had been giving. Still, she retained a polite face as she bid the now satisfied elf farewell. Then she curbed her aggravated state not longer and rounded on her youngest brother's eldest son.

"You need to tell your followers that my word is as good as yours in your absence," the Lady fumed. "Things are already busy enough without me having to spend half an hour arguing with someone about a minor issue, then spend another half hour hunting down you or my brother."

"Peace, dear aunt," Findaráto said, raising his hands in a gesture of calm. "Lission is merely loyal to my father- my House. He is not alone. Though I followed Ñolofinwë across the Helcaraxë, he and others claim to have followed me."

"That does not change the fact that when I tell them something as the Lady of this settlement they need to listen and obey. I do not tell them things out of some delusion or want for power."

The other elf grimaced. "I can speak to them, but I can make no promises that all will accept your leadership, or uncle's for that matter. If the issue of kingship weren't so complicated…" He rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. "But it is. None here will follow Fëanáro, but he is still technically Finwë's heir. Crowning another might still be named treason. Yet, without a crown my people are unlikely to follow you or Ñolofinwë over me and my siblings. You wouldn't happen to have an easy solution, would you?"

"No."

"I can try, aunt. I will promise that much."

"Very well." She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Now what have you got behind your back? Come now, out with it."

Findaráto smiled. "I can never get anything past you!"

"Not since that incident with the bear and five of my best vases," Lalwendë muttered, watching her nephew withdraw his arms from behind him. "I have learnt to be more suspicious around your ilk."

"My ilk? Why I should be offended enough to rethink gifting you this," he cried. Then he pulled a generous plant clipping from behind his back and offered it to her. The plant itself had a dozen flower heads tiny and purple in a neat bunch together, centred in an array of spikey purple leaves.

"Sea holy," she breathed. With one finger she reached out to brush against the flower's distinctive leaf. It was a vibrant purple, the very colour she herself loved.

"For your garden," Findaráto said. "It would look lovely by the foxgloves I think."

Lalwendë took it from him, placing the cuttings in the pocket of her dress. "Thank you, nephew. Your gift was very thoughtful and much appreciated."

The other laughed. "I try. Now, is there anything I can aid you with before I am waylaid by my dearest sister's list of things that need to be done that she doesn't want to do?"

His aunt paused and considered her options as her father alongside Ñolofinwë, her ever wise brother, had strived to teach her so long ago in an attempt to curb her rashness. On the one hand, an angry Artanis was not pleasurable to deal with for anyone who was caught in her wake. The youth was as spiteful as her thrice-damned uncle and just as willing to act upon it – it was a wonder the two did not get along better, even in Valinor (it was certainly no wonder now after the horrors of the Helcaraxë). Artanis was not prone to letting her displeasure go unheard either. If she wanted her brother for something and Lalwendë kept him from it, Lalwendë would hear about it immediately. On the other hand, Finwë's daughter thought with both a grin and a pang in her heart, she was the undisputed matriarch of her father's house on this side of the sea. If Artanis had a problem with her decisions, then she could go and vent her anger on her kin on the other side of the lake.

Unladylike as it was, Lalwendë would bath in mud for the rest of her immortal life to watch her niece slap that bastard half-brother of hers.

With eyes containing perhaps too much mirth, she regarded Findaráto who squirmed uncomfortably. "My brother is holding a meeting right now. Perhaps we should attend, you and I, his esteemed sister and the Lord of House Arafinwë."

Something flickered across Findaráto's visage, but it was gone too quickly to identify. Instead, relief welled up in its place and drowned the features of the young elf rather amusingly. Clearly whatever Artanis had planned he had not wanted to do.

"It is only right," the elf said. "I do have a duty, after all, to attend any and all important meetings no matter how much my dear, _beloved_  sister wishes me to go over our accounts of all the things we have used this past week."

Ah. It made sense. Lalwendë knew for a fact very few members of her father's House actually liked keeping accounts. The main culprit was Carnistir who seemed, as it were, able to live in a world entirely made of numbers (and perhaps preferred to). Ñolofinwë and Turkáno were not much better. As for the rest, only those involved in smithing were pedantic enough to want to keep rigorous accounts. And Ambaráto. Which raised the question-

"Why does your brother not do the accounts? Ambaráto is far better at it, is he not?"

The look that Lalwendë's nephew gave her was mildly condescending. "He and Artanis have had a falling out of sorts."

"Over what?" This was a concern. Their House could not afford to become any more divided than it already was. Her face must have shown her anxiety for Findaráto quickly gave her a reassuring smile.

"A silly matter, as it were," he said. "My brother may have accidently taken a knife to Artanis' favourite dress while drunk. It was in the way of the wall he was aiming at. She won't hear his apologies, at least not yet."

Lalwendë shook her head. Pride and grudges would be the death of them all (had already been the death of so many…). "Let us go to the council then, before it is over and you find yourself stuck with the unpleasant task of maintaining the logs of your House."

"Yes, let us go." Findaráto looped an arm around hers after ensuring a groom had taken his horse to its stall. With that, the pair continued to the building that serve as a hall, nowhere near as grand as the one in Tirion, but grand enough and large enough to sate the needs and desires of a council of Noldor who had survived the Grinding Ice.

Without much ado, aunt and nephew entered in through the door, nodding to the guard stationed outside who was there to prevent any unwanted interruptions more than anything else. Stopping the sister and nephew of his Lord, it seemed, did not factor into his responsibilities.

 _Good,_ Lalwendë thought to herself.  _I would hate to have to bluster my way through things. It would paint a very unladylike image._ That fact only made her want to bluster more.

Still, it was with dainty steps that the elleth moved to the large table in the room. Her wise brother stood at its head, the other Lords of his closest council gathered round. Among them was at least one friendly face: Varyar, the closest friend of Ñolofinwë's who had survived the cruelty of the Grinding Ice. He was also an irredeemable flirt when it came to his ill-advised attempts at courting her. Friends as he was with Ñolofinwë, one would think the elf would see the wisdom in taking the advice of her brother on this matter instead of ignoring it to charge headfirst into a battle that would only leave his heart broken.

But that was a matter to ponder another day.

"My Lady, Lord Findaráto," Varyar greeted, of course the first to see them outside of her brother who gave each of his kin a smiling nod. "Shall I acquire you a seat, my Lady?"

"You are kind, but it is unnecessary," Lalwendë replied with a sweet smile and a promise to kick her brother in the shins later for the laughter her was clearly trying to hide. Dealing with doting suitors was a task she hated as much as Findaráto hated keeping logs and accounts and tallies. "I can stand well enough and would not want to put you out of sorts."

"It is no trouble," Varyar insisted. Determined, he stood and offered his own chair. Lalwendë, in the presence of the other Lords, had no choice but to accept it gracefully.

"Thank you, my Lord," she said aloud at the same time as she was wishing her brother all the best in finding himself a hole to fall down. Why he couldn't take a more active role in deterring his friend she would probably never know. Varyar hovered at her shoulder, not too close to be deemed inappropriate, but close enough to be irritating.

"I hope we have not interrupted anything important," Findaráto said.

"Not at all," his uncle replied. "We were just moving to discuss our last subject of concern now. How fared your hunt?"

"Well enough. There look to be several abundant places where it might do well to establish some crops, but a more detailed report I would make with my brothers if you are amiable."

Ñolofinwë nodded. "Of course. Would you care for a seat?"

"I think I shall stand," Findaráto said, easily brushing aside the offer. "My legs need to stretch after sitting in a saddle for so long."

"As you wish."

"Have either of you seen Lord Findekáno, my Lord and Lady?" another Lord broke in. The air in the room suddenly grew tense.

Lalwendë smiled easily, despite this. "He is completing a task for me which will take the rest of the day. I apologise if you had need of him, but it was urgent."

The other elf nodded in deference. "Of course, my Lady."

But the tension in the room remained. The sooner Findekáno returned to his duties, the better. They could not keep the various elves demanding his attentions sated forever by excuses alone.

Ñolofinwë cleared his throat, returning everyone's attention to him and away from his wayward son. "I think it is time to return to the final matter of concern. I do not think any of us want to be stuck in this stuffy room until night falls, yes?" After a smattering of assents, he continued. "As you all know, my eldest nephew was returned recently from captivity in Angamando and was taken into our care."

"How fares your nephew?" a Lord asked. "We were told Fëanáro left alone."

"Maitimo is too ill to be moved," Ñolofinwë said, his head coming to rest in his hands. "Ewinadur would know more about the intricacies of his condition than I."

 _If you are truly concerned enough to learn them_. Though this comment went unsaid, Lalwendë knew her brother well enough to know that she was not alone in thinking it. Beside her, Findaráto shifted minutely.

Varyar seemed to contemplate something. "What did Fëanáro have to say of this?"

"He will keep his word," came Ñolofinwë's response. The Lord smiled tightly knowing what was truly being asked. "For his son he will. You have  _my_ word on this."

"That word is only until he wakes."

"And when he wakes we will negotiate again. Perhaps then he will be well enough to cross to the other side of the lake." Though this was unlikely – the doubt showed in her brother's eyes, if not his face as a whole.

Varyar too seemed to doubt this favourable scenario. "You assume that he will be with us for a while, then?"

What could Ñolofinwë do but nod?

Lalwendë felt sympathy for her brother then for it was not unknown to any there that the mere presence of a son of Fëanáro, however ill, was like a bad smell at best for most of their people. At worst there could be riots. Especially if those whose voices had called, and still did call, the loudest for another High King to be crowned rose their voices against this as well.

And that was only the reactions of their people in the best of circumstances.

Varyar, ever brave, braved the ominous thought. "If he dies while in our care-"

"Then we had best ensure he does not die," her brother said plainly. "He cannot be moved any time in the near future. To do so  _would_ kill him."

"Aye," another elf said. It was Lord Naham, one of the few who had truly seen Fëanáro's hapless eldest son before he had been sequestered away by the healers. Now he shook his head. "What was done to him bears no adequate name in our tongue. I feel even the Sindar would feel hard pressed to describe it. Yet, it has been done. May whatever blessings still bestowed upon us find their way to the boy and aid him in a swift recovery." To Ñolofinwë he dipped his head, who dipped his own head back in turn as the others murmured their agreement, some more sincere than others. Then Naham turned to the other elves present. "Yet, I think, perhaps, that the great eagle's choice was not a poor one. We now have something to hold over Fëanáro. He has proved how much his word is worth to us, but he loves his sons still."

"You mean to say Maitimo is our hostage?" Findaráto cried, incredulous. Lalwendë too shifted in distaste.

Naham dipped his head again in a careful sign of deference meant to placate one above him in status. "I mean to say, my Lord, that it is a possibility that we need to consider."

"Consider?" The leader of Arafinwë's House in Beleriand frowned deeply. "Maitimo is severely injured and severely ill-"

"And he is the betrayer's eldest son," Leucadil said. "Fëanáro is known to have a fiery temper and his friendship as fickle as his vows. If there is to be a war among the Noldor then it would prove wise to have such an advantage on our side."

"My cousin is not an advantage!"

"Then why house him? Our resources are scarce enough and of medicine we have enough still in dire need of it that it would be foolish to waste it on a useless elf who may not survive the night."

"Because we are not the Enemy," Findaráto spat.

"Of course not," Ñolofinwë interrupted, eager to end the fight before it could truly start. "For now Maitimo remains a guest in our care and our duty is to heal him. If we want for resources in doing so, then Fëanáro will give them to us."

Now Mahtar spoke up, another Lord and Captain of the soldiers, though he was more adapt, in Lalwendë's opinion, at the sharp game of politics. "War and resources are not our only concern in this matter."

"What do you mean?" Ñolofinwë asked sharply.

Mahtar looked at him evenly. "We have not been here long by reckoning of the years we mark now by the Sun and its patterns. Yet, long enough have we lingered for news and other whispers to reach the ears of those who listen for them. Most come from the Avari who best know what occurs in this dark land. The local Sindar have many tales – a friend returned from a journey long who was no longer the friend he seemed, a once lost son dutiful until the stars are covered by dark clouds, a wife returned home who turns on her husband and children as they lie asleep in their beds soon to be stained with their blood. Even children are not exempt from this horror. Of those who are taken and found again it is often said that their eyes glow when in shadow and their teeth are sharper than any elf's has any right to be. Superstitions you might say, but there are tales too from the Noldor in that other camp or elves scratching at the gates pleading one minute only to laugh the next, voices fey and wicked…"

Lalwendë rose from her seat for the first time. Unease was rising in her and harshly she demanded of the Lord, "Your point?"

"You say you know little of your nephew's condition," Mahtar answered, looking to the one to whom he had sworn allegiance on the Ice. "Do you know enough to swear he is no threat?"

Silence reigned for a moment as this sunk in. Then-

"You think Maitimo is an orc?"

It was Findaráto who grasped his aunt's arm to stay her, too incised himself to speak. Ñolofinwë was irritatingly silent, though he frowned as did several other lesser Lords.

"The Sindar are well known for their superstitions," Varyar said. "And what reason have we to believe any on the other side of the lake? I have heard the tales you have mentioned, yet all of them share one thing – the elf in question returns unaided or is found already free of orcs and Angamando. In no case has an elf who was turned to the Enemy been rescued from the realm of Morgoth himself as Maitimo has been by the valiant Findekáno."

Perhaps Varyar was not such a terrible suitor after all. Certainly, Lalwendë could kiss him now, though the inappropriateness of the gesture coupled with it giving the wrong message stayed her as well as her nephew's hand.

"But we cannot be sure," Mahtar said. The implications of his words were ominous indeed and they stirred a fierce flame inside Finwë's second daughter.

"Are you claiming that we should turn out one of our own simply because of superstition and fear?" she cried. She turned her gaze to their others, pinning them under the coldness of her stare. "I would not think educated Lords such as yourselves would be so craven as to fall prey to rumour and ramblings, and heartless enough -"

"Lalwendë, control yourself," her brother snapped. She shut her mouth with a glower. Ñolofinwë returned his gaze to the other elf and said, " _If_ this is so, we will not know until Maitimo wakes.  _If_ he wakes."

"By then it may be too late," came Mahtar's reply.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Calm he might have sounded, but the second son of Finwë had an edge to his anger that could lurk unseen until it burst.

"Oswanë is one method to see what lurks inside his head even in this unconscious state. There are enough here who are skilled enough to undertake this task." Before any could protest, Mathar continued. "It would, however, be inadvisable course of action. The danger to both those who attempt to enter his mind and to the mind of your nephew himself is too great a risk."

"Then what do you suggest we do?"

Finally, finally the Captain desisted. He sighed. "We can do nothing until he wakes. There are yet paths of caution we can take. I know he resides in your house, but it would be wise to station a guard there for the safety of all parties. Leaving him unattended would also be unwise, though this the healers would have also mentioned, I am sure."

Ñolofinwë nodded, slow and considering. "Very well. I will take your words into account. If that is all?" When no one else spoke up. "I think we have concluded this day's business. Of course, any concerns you have please bring them to me directly. Be well until our next meeting."

The others replied in kind and each Lord stood from the table. They left in small groups until at last only the three descendants of Finwë were left. Almost immediately Lalwendë turned on her brother. "How could you order me to hold my tongue?" she demanded.

"You insulted half of the Lords there! What else could I do?"

"They claimed he was an orc!"

"Only Mahtar did," Ñolofinwë corrected. "And not as a claim, but rather the raising of a valid concern."

Lalwendë was taken aback. "So you think he is an orc? I cannot believe you could do so."

"I think nothing of the sort," her brother replied shortly. "I doubt very much Maitimo has been subjected to such a fate, if not simply for the fact that his father would have known immediately. Do you truly think Fëanáro would have remained calmly by his son's side if Morringotto had indeed changed him from elf to orc?"

"Then why did you not tell them that?"

"Because to tell them that Fëanáro has confirmed he is no orc would be received the same as telling them that Fëanáro confirmed Maitimo had no part in the burning. At best they would not believe me. At worst-"

Lalwendë sunk into a chair and dropped her head to her hands. "It is all so complicated. More so than it was in Tirion."

"In Tirion we had not the multitude of problems we face now," Ñolofinwë said plainly. He looked at her sharply and Findaráto too who had thus far been listening silently. "There is another reason I did not raise an objection to Mahtar's reasoning. No orc Maitimo might be, but we cannot be certain until he wakes that he is free of all influence the Enemy may have forced upon him. Even then, it could be that some part lies dormant in his mind unless Morringotto or his ilk wills it otherwise. The Sindar are superstitious, and overly so, but their stories do have some truth to them."

"Some truth does not mean that appalling ideas based wholly upon  _some_ truth should not go unanswered. He is our kin, whatever he has done."

"Sister-"

"No, Ñolvo," she snapped as she whipped around. "You cannot undermine me like that during a council. You must not. If you are gone from here, it is I who must reign in your steed, with or without the aid of your sons. Is it not?"

Ñolofinwë dipped his head. "It is so."

"Then it must appear that you trust me and will back me if needed."

"Not as much as you need to back me," her brother snapped. "You need to be calm to do so, Lalwen. You need to be above the games that they can play. Above the jibes they can give knowingly and unknowingly. We know well what rashness does or should I send you to learn again from Fëanáro's thrice-damned example? Should I invite him here so you can see the effects when he swings a sword at my neck and holds it there as though I were Morringotto himself?"

Lalwendë paled at the reminder of that day, that blasted day when she had thought bloodshed between kin would prove imminent (and it had, just not then, not in the way she thought it would). There had been something wrong with their brother, he was clearly not in his right head even then, and yet so badly she had wanted to raise a sword of her own against him for threatening Ñolofinwë. So badly-

This was what darkness did to them, to elves. It got into all the little crevices that marred their perfection and whispered vile things.

"I would very much like to put a sword or arrow or spear through the throat of that Valar," she said eventually, head in her hands. Her brother somewhat awkwardly pat her on the back. She sighed. "I am sorry for my words. It is just- It hurts that you could dismiss me so. Already I fear I struggle with the regard of the others here. I am not mother, I am certainly not father, and I am not you. I am criticised often for being unladylike, now as much as I ever was in Tirion." Though on the Helcaraxë such tongues had softened for being ladylike was of less concern than being able to survive. "What would I do should you leave and they still see fit to dismiss my command as easily as you dismiss my comments?"

Ñolofinwë gave her the smile of an older brother. "You forget that they followed us  _both_  across the Grinding Ice, sister. You worry about nothing."

"Aye, dear aunt," Findaráto now broke in. "And if any think to declare otherwise, I shall correct them wholeheartedly as will your whole motley brigade of nephews and nieces here."

"And Varyar would certainly never dismiss or abandon you," her brother added. With all the grace bestowed upon him, he then danced away from her vengeful hands. "How unladylike indeed! You should be grateful he, at least, thinks to overlook such flaws."

"You are a pig sometimes, brother dear," Lalwendë said dryly. "I don't know why you encourage him."

"I don't know why you refuse to acknowledge him at all."

"And you never will." If she had any say about it, in any case.

Her mood considerably lightened by the familiar sibling teasing, Lalwendë tilted her head back to face her nephew. "Thank you for your words, though I am undecided some days if my whole motley brigade of nephews and nieces is a blessing or a curse."

"A curse!" Findaráto put his hand to his breast in mock outrage. He winked at her. Yet, still he lingered though the conversation had died.

"Is there anything on your mind?" Ñolofinwë asked in his calm manner.

"Yes. You made mention of Fëanáro confirming that Maitimo did not burn the ships," Findaráto said hesitantly, turning to his uncle. "Was this some hypothetical situation or-"

"It is true," Ñolofinwë said blandly. "My brother swore it by Ilùvatar himself. Maitimo argued against the burning and refused to take up a torch at Losgar when he failed to convince his father against the madness that had consumed him."

No doubt Fëanáro had put it in different words. Yet, a whoosh of breath escaped from Lalwendë as the consequences of this hit her. Her half-nephew had been mutilated by a great evil and her most innocent one at that. It was a sickening thought.

"Then why not tell them so?" Findaráto asked. "Surely it would sate our people somewhat to know they are not housing a traitor in their midst."

Lalwendë sighed. She could understand the reasoning that had silenced her brother's tongue. "As your uncle said, the Lords here are unlikely to believe such a thing, especially so recently after Fëanáro reluctantly agreed to leave his ill son in our care. It will look like a cheap ploy at best. Many would take it as an insult to their character and the memory of the Ice."

Collectively, though unconsciously, the three elves shuddered at the memory of biting snow and an even worse biting cold.

"You should at least tell those of us who are kin," Findaráto said. "It may ease Finno's heart to know his friend did not forget him as was thought."

Ñolofinwë shook his head. "Finno, maybe, and Iríssë too. Yet, I fear Turkáno would not be so easily convinced in his grief. Nor your brothers or sister," he added. "No. This will remain between us for now, until things settle. Findekáno – if I deem he needs to know, I will tell him myself. Neither of your will."

For all the seriousness of the topic, Lalwendë fought hard not to smile. Here was the Prince she had known in her youth, had grown up calling brother. Here was the Prince who had led his people through the everlasting snow and the endless blizzards that conjured it on the Helcaraxë. Here was the Prince who had entered into a stalemate negotiation with the betrayers on the other side of the lake and still yet kept them from further senseless bloodshed. There were days when she missed him, when he was quieter or more snappish or lost in mournful memories, but those days were not today. No, today Lalwendë was totally and perhaps irrationally proud.

"We will keep this secret," Lalwendë said and her nephew gave his assent as well.

Ñolofinwë gave them both a grateful smile. Then he sighed, the proud Prince from before disappearing to a worried elf once more. "If Maitimo dies here, I fear there will be war between the Noldor."

The words cut through the air like a sword through Teleri flesh. They were unwanted, yet unavoidable in this new reality of theirs. Heavy and terrifying.  _Is this what we have come to?_

Findaráto's blue eyes flashed determinedly in his fair face framed by those wild golden locks. Alongside eldest sons of Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë, he had ever been the peacemaker of Finwë's fractured House. "Whatever you need, uncle, I will do it. You need only ask."

Ñolofinwë reached out to grasp his hands. "Thank you," he said solemnly.

"You are not alone," their youngest brother's eldest pressed. "I and my brothers and sister have not abandoned you. Either of you," he finished, glancing at Lalwendë.

"You have our aid as well," the Lady replied. "A fair leader you made while crossing the Ice, yet should you need advice or other help we would be glad to give it."

Findaráto nodded gracefully. Then he fixed both of them with a stare. " _Is_  there anything you need now? For our people, for your sanity, for Matimo?"

"The best thing you can do now is to pray for your cousin's recovery," Ñolofinwë said. "Your brothers and sister as well, and your nephew."

"The healers sing for him already," Findaráto replied. "We shall add our voices to theirs."

With another gracious bob of his head, he left. Lalwendë watched after his bouncing steps, still so light after all they had been through, and sadness twitched against the corners of her lips. He was so young to be the Lord of his own House and people. Yet, this was what his father had left him to – what he himself had chosen.

It seemed everything in the world had turned upside down and three times round and then hurled itself into a pit filled with jagged things to tear itself apart further still.

"There is something off with Findekáno," she said.

Her brother's proud shoulders merely slumped further. "I know. I do not think he has slept since that first night, and yet I find myself too busy to chase after him in this."

"I can do the chasing," Lalwendë offered.

Ñolofinwë shook his head. "No. It should be me. There is much that sits between us and this new concern is just one of them. We need to talk as father and son."

"And Lord and subject," his sister pointed out reluctantly. "He cannot continue to shirk his duties. Already there are whispers of his fitness to lead and his state of mind, not to mention his loyalties and where they might lie." She paused. "If it helps, Ewinadur aided me in…persuading him to sleep some, though he sits in his cousin's room."

"By persuaded you mean drugged."

It was a statement, not a question, and there was not much Lalwendë could do to counter it. Instead she shrugged. "It was called for. I remember doing the same to you in Tirion when a particular matter caught your attentions so much so that you neglected yourself." She had also done so several times since they had left Tirion, not that she would say aloud.

"And people think that Fëanáro is the duplicitous one."

Lalwendë snorted. Fëanáro was about as duplicitous as a one-sided wall. If he had a problem with someone they knew about it, whoever that person was. She closed her eyes. It was this same knowledge that meant she had known, that they all had known when they had seen that damned glow upon the horizon.

Her brother's laughter drew her back to the present. It was not true laughter, not really, rather nerves and stress forcing its way out into the world that had caused it. He sunk into a chair and laughed and laughed.

"Mandos was right," Ñolofinwë said. "We are doomed."

"We will manage, brother," she told him firmly. "Just as we did on the Helcaraxë."

"On the Helcaraxë it was merely us and the ice," her brother replied, closing his eyes. "Here there are too many things to count."

"Then do not count them. Deal with them and you will find their number lessened." The face of another appeared before Lalwendë, kind and wise and left behind in Valinor. It was a plain face but a mighty one all the same for in truth only Nerdanel had ever held the ear of Fëanáro in confidence, had held his ear and had him listen. Their estrangement had been a sad one, though not unsurprising. That she had not come-

It was said Nerdanel was one of the wisest elves in all of Arda. There were nights when Lalwendë prayed this was wrong.

"If only it were so easy," came her brother's voice. Ñolofinwë sounded disheartened.

"If it were so easy then no one would have stayed behind." Once more words spoken in a fiery grief rung loud and clear in her mind. "The road is hard, yes, but the ending will be worth it. Iluvatár is not so cruel as to make all suffering mean nothing. For those of us brave enough to take the road there will be reward enough in the future songs they sing, whatever our fates may be. Be brave, my noble brother. No more are we helpless servants to those who, in kindness, would let us exist as ghosts in luxury with no substantial impact on the world."

For a while nothing more passed between them. In that sad and small hall they sat, each lost in the overwhelming reality that was theirs. Then Ñolofinwë rose and pressed a kiss to his sister's head. He said nothing, but nothing needed to be said. The weary gratefulness he felt was spoken by his eyes and gestures well enough before he left to attend to his duties. Not long afterwards, scrubbing her face free of tears her brother had not seen, Lalwendë left to attend to hers.

The rest of the day went easily enough, just dreary tasks completed one after the other so that the settlement could continue to run as best it could. When all the tasks were done and dinner had been eaten and Findekáno checked upon to be found still sleeping at his prone cousin's side, the elleth retreated to one of the walls that had been erected to protect the settlement. Aside from the odd passing guard it was bereft of other beings. This was a comfort. She needed to be alone so that her thoughts could settle back into a state of calm.

As day passed once more from the world, the sound of voices flew to her who stood alone atop the wall. The healers were singing again. If Lalwendë strained her ears enough in the right direction she could hear distant others singing too. So many voices working for a single purpose. In the blackness of night and the long shadows it cast, this could not be extinguished.

Maybe, just maybe that they could survive what was to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This dialogue is, of course, taken directly from the book. 
> 
> Updates from here on out will be sporadic. I will en-devour to try my best however. Feel free to bug me about it.


	4. Chapter 4

Blue eyes. Calm. Wise. Lined at the corners in the way that all elves’ fair faces were when the years they had lived were many indeed. Ñolofinwë blinked them and the lines in the polished metal disappeared. The eyes that stared back at him were just regular blue eyes. He sighed. He missed his father, missed him strongly.

There was singing in the distance, wordless noise that barely brushed the limits of his elven hearing. It came from his brother’s settlement, no doubt, or else some group of Sindar lamenting to the stars.  _Sweet Varda…_

From the crude mirror the Prince turned to the window and gazed at what alone had guided them in the dark. There they hung like jewels on a cloak, red and blue and silver scattered in patterns that, if he cared to, the elf could trace as he had often done in Valinor. He did not care to, though. Even the stars were different here. The constellations were not those of his home. Ñolofinwë missed his home, missed all who had stayed behind. Even Arafinwë, though he knew few who shared this particular sentiment – to some a coward was almost as bad as a traitor. But how could he not miss his youngest brother, his youngest sibling with his sunshine hair and blue, blue eyes? That laugh which was crooked and flashed crooked teeth, an imperfection for royalty perhaps, but so wholly perfect for him? Youth had always looked good on Arafinwë and his get, and it had never left the former no matter how complicated things had grown in Tirion. It had never left, not even when he had looked upon a bloody Alqualondë in horror and heard the Doom Mandos had proclaimed. Ñolofinwë could only pray that such youth would never leave his brother’s children. That Arafinwë had not parted from his children for the final time in this life.

Ñolofinwë looked at the stars and wondered if his little brother was thinking of him. If his mother was, and Findis, his eldest sister. If his dear, beloved wife-

But she had made her choice. They all had.

Perhaps he was a fool, but he would not be an idle one. A valiant people his half-brother had called the Noldor. Valiant was a word with its own sweet ring.

The elf roused himself from his musings and turned sharply back to the small desk in his chamber. On it was scattered the various implements of a Lord – quills and ink and parchment, all as mighty as a sword in the vicious game of politics. Half a dozen documents laid open and slightly crumpled, records of the day, the week, the years and the wrongs done unto them by their supposed King and his brethren. Next to them was a half-written letter. Fëanáro would be expecting it come morning.

It was funny how a few lines were so hard to write.

It was this document that Ñolofinwë plucked from the desk. He frowned as he read it, thinking and rethinking every word he had set down minutes before:

_~~Brother~~ _

_~~Half-brother~~ _

_~~My King~~ _

_~~My Prince~~ _

_~~Lord~~ _

_~~Curufinw~~ _ _~~ë F~~ _ _~~ëanáro~~ _

__

_~~Brother~~ _

How to address him? How to address that treacherous bastard? Once more he skipped the issue. The rest was almost clinical in its coldness, exactly what it needed to be:

_Maitimo is no better or worse. He still has not awakened. The healer in charge, Ewinadur, has enclosed his notes with a more detailed report inside._

_~ Prince_ _Ñolofinw_ _ë Aracáno, leader of the Noldor on the southern shores of Lake Mithrim_

It would do good to remind that arrogant fool of his own status amongst their people. Though, if he were to indulge in this near pettiness, then his dilemma for how to write the address solved itself:

_Greetings King of the Noldor on the northern shores of Lake Mithrim, Curufinw_ _ë F_ _ëanáro,_

An acknowledgment of his half-brother’s crown, but no admission that crown held power over his own people (or true admission that it did not). Hopefully it would prove safe enough.

The elf Lord looked at the letter again and felt something swell in his heart, bold and harsh. He was loath to call it hatred for those who hated had their own downfall granted to them by the powers of the world. Still, at that moment he held no love for his father’s first son. He would hold no love for a long time.

It did not take long for Ñolofinwë to make a formal copy for delivery by one of the ravens they had to the other side of the lake. It would be better to deliver it then and there, but dawn would have to do. Fëanáro could wait. If he had complaints, he could wait to voice those too. The leader of those who had crossed the barren ice had other things to do while the moon chose to grant them its white light. He had to find Ewinadur to receive the latest report on his nephew’s condition. Talk through what resources they needed to ensure he did not die behind their doors. Patrols needed to be sorted. Scouting parties chosen and sent afar to see what land they could make theirs. Contacts deepened with the Sindar, with anyone else who cared to join their cause. Turkáno was still grieving, though he had seemed to be in a fouler mood than usual. Írissë rearing to go capering off into the surrounding forests unaccompanied by any save her love for the hunt. Dealing with Findaráto and his siblings to see where they stood on the issue of leadership was one thing. Dealing with his own eldest was another.

For a moment the urgency of everything overwhelmed him once again. Even in Tirion being King had not been like this. Now it was not just politics and family drama and the everyday needs of a people tensed for a fight, but also orcs and failing crops and frightened people and Lords that were alternatively too idle and too rash. Ñolofinwë pressed his hands to his temples. Swore as though the crude words could drive it all away. Threw a cloth over that mirror when he glimpsed that ghost again. Then fell to his knees before it and begged like he had upon the Ice.

“What should I do, father? Tell me what to do, please! There is too much here, too much to at stake and too much that could be lost to risk.”

But it was not the living’s lot to speak with the dead, nor the dead’s to speak with the living.

Desolation crept upon the shoulders of Finwë’s second son, its tendrils weaving through the pockets despair had made. It almost crippled him as helplessly as his poor nephew was now rendered, the darkness, even in the candlelight, seeking to chain him to all the vile shadows of the room. There were moments on the Helcaraxë where he had wanted to sink into the snow, to lay down as others had and sleep there until the cold bore him to Mandos’ halls, to disappear into the frigid waters as sweet Elwenë had and claim the frozen peace they offered. Now the elf felt that desire again, wrestled with it for the good of his people and family. It was a weakness and nothing more.

In the roaring blizzards he had gone on and he would go on here too. He had many problems, yes, but inaction and despair would never be the answer.

“Do not count them. Deal with them,” the Prince muttered to himself. They were not the words of a King, though they should have been for their wisdom. Instead, they were the words of a plain looking elleth who had come to reside in their father’s home practically unannounced and at the side of the suddenly married Crown Prince. In her arms had been a babe and in her eyes there had been little pity as she looked upon the youth lamenting his troubles to her. It was little wonder Fëanáro had married Nerdanel – she was one of the few who would tolerate his antics for nothing. She would tolerate very few people’s antics, perhaps her own sons and grandson being the only ones who held such favour with her.

In another time, in another world she would have made a brilliant Queen.

Ñolofinwë pondered for a while longer. They should have kidnapped Nerdanel, he decided in a flight of fancy, even if they would have had to risk Lord Mahtan’s hammer, and her own, to do it. At the very least he should have begged her to accompany him as a friend. She had always been a good friend, that plain wife of his most fiery brother. Besides, it had always been a delight (and half a horrific nightmare) to watch the elleth strong-arm quite literally many a wayward noble to concede to her wisdom when they insisted on what she insisted was a grievous stupidity, the most grievous of which had always been an undeserved insult to her family. Of course, no fists had ever been thrown, but when a Lady grabbed one by the ear and twisted, one would be very hard pressed not to cry.

Yes, he should have begged and insisted. Should have pitted his wisdom against hers.

No matter. What was done was done. Ewinadur’s own timeless wisdom would have to do. The elf had served his father well along the Great Journey to Valinor and had continued to serve him well since. He was a loyal elf and an esteemed healer – indeed it was he who had saved the most lives on the Grinding Ice, commanding the other healers and Ladies and Lords with all the drive of a king. But he had no ambition to become one, and that only furthered Ñolofinwë’s liking for him. A crown was a heavy thing.

_To Ewinadur then._

The elf Prince snuffed out the candles upon his desk and moved only in the starlight entwined with moonlight as across the threshold of his family’s house. The rough streets were fairly empty – Turkáno had already begun planes to develop them into something more deserving of elves – which was not unsurprising. There was clear movement in more than half the houses and the forges still burned hot, and this was not unsurprising either. Elves had only the scarcest need for Irmo’s grace when hale. And when Irmo’s grace soured, then action was often the best remedy to those lingering terrors of ice and snow and-

Ewinadur was striding down the path, looking for all the world that he was trying to escape such sleep.

“My Prince and Lord,” the healer called when he saw him, waving.

Ñolofinwë returned the wave in kind. “My friend, there is no need for such formalities this night.”

“As you wish,” Ewinadur said. The two elves fell into step and went on somewhat aimlessly, content with the quiet between them.

“If I may,” Ñolofinwë said after a while had passed. “What brings you out into the night’s chilled air?”

The other did not grimace, but then again, most healers did not given centuries in their profession. “What might bring anyone outside when they could be inside in warmth and near the presence of kinder souls than the stars, a dream and nothing more. It will pass. What brings you here?”

“Not a dream, but close enough,” Ñolofinwë answered. “Though I was also seeking you, so it was fortunate that we met.”

“Aye,” Ewinadur nodded. “Fortune seems to smile on you and yours at least, if not your entire family.” Though he did not say the names, it was clear who he meant. The healer had been there at the birth of Fëanáro and at Miríel’s death. It was he who had been the prime attendant for all the births of Finwë’s later children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, save Maitimo and Angaráto. It was a commonality the two alone had shared amongst the brood that made up Finwë’s extended house, reckless parents and early comings. Perhaps they could share it again given time and more good fortune.

“And does fortune still shirk my nephew?” Ñolofinwë asked.

Ewinadur smiled sadly. “He is better than he was when he arrived, but only by a fraction. I fear a stronger fever is setting in; signs of it were swift to appear upon his father’s departure.”

“Can he survive it?”

“His spirit was always as strong as his father’s, though more subdued, and we have the supplies to treat it.”

Ñolofinwë could not help the small smile that poked at the edges of his lips. And people said that politicians and diplomats were evasive when it came to giving conclusive answers. Then the elf’s lips fell again. “ _Can_  you treat it successfully? His father will not take well the news that his eldest son has succumbed to fever so soon after his leaving.”

 

“ _Can_  I treat it?” Now Ewinadur rose an eyebrow in a perfect arch. “The fever is only in its beginnings and I have successfully tamed far worse fevers far later on in their trajectory with far less on that thrice-damned Grinding Ice, and with even less in Cuiviénen.” Then his Noldorian pride subsided and he sighed. “I can only promise to do my best. Before Valinor, where we had Maia aplenty and even the Valar to help, some still perished from the heat that consumed them from the inside out. With his hröa so weak, with his  _f_ _ëa_ so weak…”

A breeze swirled between them. It was soft and cool, its fingers stirring up the faint traces of incense that still lingered on the healer’s clothes. Far from soothing, it seemed like an omen yet to truly take form. Ñolofinwë discretely held his nose higher and frowned.

“Would I be wrong to say he is no worse off then?”

“Nay,” came Ewinadur’s measured reply. “The fever itself has likely been waiting on the edges since his return and has yet to make itself fully known. Tomorrow, perhaps, but for now he is no worse.” Then, without missing a beat, he continued. “You wish me to tell Fëanáro of this, I suppose.”

Ñolofinwë smiled. “You know me too well.”

“Not for nothing I watched the lot of you grow. I know more about you all than any of you realise: Findis’ continued love of dolls made with grey silk and pearls, Lalwendë’s penchant for anything spiced with saffron, Arafinwë’s hatred of eel and plaice that he never will get around to telling his wife, the number of times Fëanáro failed to woo Nerdanel before she wooed him back-”

“How many times did he fail?” Ñolofinwë asked, surprised. He, like most everyone, had always assumed

“And your inability to maintain hatred or even complete indifference to your half-brother even now,” Ewinadur finished.

The Prince looked away as though the action could deny truth its due place in the world. “Will you do it?” he asked instead.

Ewinadur sighed, nodded. “Aye. I shall take any wrath he has at his son’s continuing misfortune. It is a shame to see the boy like that, brought so low.”

“His beauty was admired by many,” Ñolofinwë agreed.

“Not just his beauty,” the healer said. “He was a friend to many, on their side and on ours. A constant in the lives of many, for while he is young, he is older than most. There was a grace to him too, some hidden thing I doubt even his minstrel brother can name. I saw it there, in Alqualondë, as he towered above near everyone else, his flaming hair unkept by any helm and tossed about him like strands of fire dancing with the wind, burning all it came across without thought or reason or mercy and without the hesitation that would plague a lesser force. I was at his side when he killed two Teleri who I think were brothers. One was already wounded but fighting valiantly so – the elder I assumed. Both carried those boathooks that we then learned could as easily pull an elf to their death as debris from the water. The wounded one was the challenger, refused to stand down and tend to himself. Somewhere during the fight, Maitimo then locked weapons with his brother. It was over quickly. Maitimo’s heart was too kind to drag out that inevitable ending and his sword slipped into their chests with the care a mother might take when slipping their child into another’s arms. There was a sorrow in his gaze, I remember that, though it was overshadowed by some animal instinct. All of us were overshadowed so…”

“Alqualondë was a mistake.”

“Perhaps it was.” Ewinadur contemplated the starlit sky. “But it is done now.”

Ñolofinwë shook himself, sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Let us not ponder on such grim thoughts and memories now. There is enough grimness now to worry about. We do not need more.”

Two eyebrows cocked themselves meaningfully at him. “You should take your own advice. Still, what matters shall we discuss – if you have the time and the cares of Irmo do not call, that is.”

“For you, always. At least for now. Who knows what the days to come will bring?”

“Ah, you tend towards pessimism again, my Prince. Think instead of how Varyar is planning to serenade your sister a week from now when the crocus have come fully into bloom.”

Ñolofinwë groaned. “Will he ever learn?”

“It is more fun for us if he does not,” Ewinadur, wise, old Ewinadur who had undertaken the Great Journey to Aman, said quite gleefully.

“Those of us who do not have to deal with my sister’s resulting temper, you mean.” Ñolofinwë rubbed his nose again. “What is he thinking? Varyar is no singer, not by far.”

“Perhaps he feels she will finally take pity on him for the attempt.”

“She failed to the last time he tried this. I do not hope for much difference now.”

“Well, _I_  will enjoy the spectacle at least. It has been far too long since I’ve seen any great work of comedy, and while Varyar is left wanting in the arts, his antics will suffice well enough to sate at least this small part of me.”

“Just don’t let Lalwendë catch you laughing.”

“And what would she do?” Ewinadur returned. “I have seen her run naked through Tirion’s many fountains as an elfling and helped your mother catch her on many an occasion. As you should well know, once you have seen one undertake the naked antics of a ridiculous childhood, then it is very hard to be intimated by whatever it is they do.”

The elf was right. Írissë had been a right terror as a child and almost as shy of clothes as her aunt had once been. Where that streak in their family came from, Ñolofinwë was afraid to ask.

In fear that he might, in fact, receive that answer (as much as he loved his father from a place that refused to lift him to a pedestal, Ñolofinwë did  _not_ want to hear of his own antics as a youth – or, worse still, those of his mother), the Lord abruptly stopped in their ambling and drew the letter from his robes. “I trust you will be able to pass this on, then?”

“Did you suddenly remember some other duty you must attend to? Very convenient.” Ewinadur smiled a smile that knew how discomforting it was. Still, he took the letter and bowed. “I will attach my report and send them both by raven tomorrow morning at first light. May the rest of your night be good, my Lord and Prince.”

“May the rest of yours be good as well.”

So they parted ways, one off to wherever his feet carried him and one whose feet turned him back towards the way he had come. Ewinadur joked, and there may have been some truth in it, but he did have other urgent duties that called to him like a distressed child to their father. An apt description, considering.

He glanced at the stars once more, that glitter set in the black fields of night, flowers never to be harvested, only ever to be looked at unanimously by all that had eyes to see. They were things that could never be claimed as one’s own, like the sun and the moon now that those miraculous orbs had been birthed into existence. But the stars – they were older and more brilliant, despite the brilliance of the light the other two shone. It was the stars that had guided them on the Helcaraxë. It was the stars that had reassured them they were not the only creatures in existence in those vast and endless white plains. The points that all travellers could navigate by, if they knew them well enough, and he knew well the little dip of them that hovered above his house here in Arda from having lain on the roof many a lonely night in a row.

There were ghosts in the breeze around him, tugging at his shoulders, enveloping him in slender arms that he feared he would never feel again. Tendrils of blonde and brown seemed to swirl around him as fine as the hair of each elleth they blessed. Twin faces hung in the frost left by his chilled breath, completely different and yet both speaking of home: one old and warm and loving, the other lovely and fresh and fond. Ñolofinwë tore his arm threw the image. Tried not to feel the pang of longing that made his insides ache.

His breath conjured up another ghost, this one with brilliant blue eyes and a calm face. Finwë’s second son left it hanging there for even he could not bring himself to destroy that face a second time.

Ñolofinwë walked quicker now, eager to be out of the cold and the shades that lingered there. When he came before the door, he passed throughout it with the barest of pauses into the scant warmth of his family’s house. On the other side he paused for longer, the Prince leaning against the door with closed eyes and a will to recollect the straying parts of himself.

There was a murmuring voice somewhere within the walls – Turkáno reading to his daughter. Venturing further in found Ñolofinwë’s own daughter hale, if not wholly aware. Írissë had fallen into the realms of dream somewhere in the process of either retrieving or replacing arrows she was fletching in their quiver. She stood in the middle of the main room, sagging a little in the back and shoulders. Even as her father watched, the elleth began to move once more, slow and absently to where a pile of arrows waited to be fletched. She sat, still caught in elven dreams, and her well-trained hands began their task. It was a scene that could have been taken from Tirion itself.

Ñolofinwë smiled to himself sadly. One of her ears had been bitten by the frost and remained so despite the warmer years they had spent in Arda. She bore the blemish with the pride of one who had slain many a bear on the Ice. With her hair tucked so behind her uneven ears she resembled her mother. Anairë- Had not come.

A hand on his child’s head. A peek into the other’s room and a nod to him and his own drowsing daughter. Then to the room that held his last son and the herb scented stench of woe. He had never much liked the stench of burning herbs.

Maitimo laid as lifeless as ever on Turkáno’s old bed, the sheets drawn up to his too-thin shoulders. Findekáno’s eyes were glazed over in what had begun as a drugged sleep and now had slipped into more natural dreams. A frown furrowed that young brow and his father kissed it away. Wished he could do the same to the many wounds of his hapless nephew.

Ñolofinwë sighed and stroked his nephew’s forehead. Blue eyes – not so calm and wise as the ones that had preceded them – drifted aimlessly around the room. They came to rest on the space across from him.

He remembered the eldest of them sitting across from him on the same chair where Findekáno now slept. It was enough to set his blood boiling, enough to make him wish that Maitimo would not wake so that chair would never be filled by its original occupant again. Then a twinged of remorse struck him, and the Lord stroked a gentle hand over his nephew’s feverish brow. The touch was greeted by nothing. If a swell of disappointed stirred within Ñolofinwë, he let it be. Better disappointment than horrendous wishes and the rage that sparked them.

He stroked that brow again, felt the heat that sought to sear his palm and turned the power innate within his fëa towards it like water down a funnel. That funnel trickled only – he was no healer, had not the instinct nor the temperament for healing, though he had experience enough from the Helcaraxë. A blessing the elf murmured on his lips for any Vala that might yet still hear. Then a blessing he murmured over his own son, that Irmo might yet grant him peace in his dreams and Estë a balm for whatever ailed his young heart. A blessing he asked for himself too, never too proud to know when he was so far out of his depth that the sea might never wash him back to shore. Three blessings for three elves. If it were enough, it would be a miracle.

Not for nothing Mandos had barred their words from ever-

There was a loud crash against the window. It was enough to make Ñolofinwë jerk his hand rather roughly over Maitimo’s frail skin and to startle Findekáno from the chair with a curse.

“What in the- Father?”

“Calm yourself,” the elder said, though he himself was fervently wishing it was not some orc who had managed to circumvent their defences. With a grimace he only partially managed to hide he went to the window and drew back the shutters. Looked around, then down and was promptly assaulted by a mess of feathers whirling madly in its desperation to get in. There was some more swearing from both father and son. When both had somewhat calmed, they surveyed the thing that had invited itself into the room.

It was an owl. Its yellow eyes glared at Ñolofinwë as they adjusted to the dim lighting of the room.

_Fantastic._

The elf glanced to his nephew over whom the owl was perched on the bed’s headboard. Maitimo had not stirred in the slightest. What else had he expected?

“What should we do?” Findekáno asked, eyeing the bird as though it had caused him some great offence.

Ñolofinwë moved towards it. It, in turn, snapped its beak at him then proceeded to preen itself. He glanced at Maitimo once more. “It may be best to leave it alone for now, lest we risk your cousin some great disturbance. I do not feel like chasing an errant bird around the room, do you?”

Findekáno shook his head. “Still, whatever the choice, we need to close the window. The healers went on and on about how catching any sort of chill could be detrimental to Maitimo, and how important it was not to let the incense disperse from the room too much.”

“Of course.” His father glanced at the owl again, probed its mind gently and received something that must have resembled a bird swearing in return. The creature was clearly unhappy about having run into the window before and had no plans to move. He sighed again. Shut the window behind him and resigned himself to the potent stench of the room.

Findekáno, meanwhile, stretched before settling back into the chair. He placed one hand on his cousin’s skin-and-bone chest, monitoring the faint breaths that coursed through it, up that scarred throat and out of torn lips. The shadows of the room cast a ghastly mask over the thing that seemed more skull than head.

Ñolofinwë shuddered. He remembered well the horror hunger wrought on the Helcaraxë, remembered well the thin elves who could scarcely stumble forward and had at long last fallen, eyes closed, lips parted, the breath too gentle in their throat and lungs as it lingered just enough to keep the husks starving on-

A thought brushed against his mind, a questioning word barely strong enough to nudge against the barriers in his head:  _father?_

 _I am alright,_ he spoke into Findekáno’s mind, though the younger elf only seemed confused by this. It did not matter. They could speak of his own woes at a later date. For now, he needed to focus on his son. Aloud he said, “What is it that ails you so? What is it that keeps you from your duties?”

His son laughed. Glanced at Maitimo fruitlessly from the corner of his eye and ignored the discontent bird. “The same thing that has worried at me for the past few days. I fear to lose another I love.”

It was a plainer answer than Ñolofinwë had dared hope. Still, it cut him to the core. In his heart of hearts he feared the same as well, yet there was so much to complicate that feeling. “The healers are cautiously optimistic that he may make it yet.”

“A fever’s setting in.” The words were said dully. “The wound was too much.”

There was no need to ask what wound he meant.

“A fever may well have set in anyway had you left him there,” Ñolofinwë reasoned. “The rocks seemed to have gashed him quite a bit and infection could have set into any one of them.”

Findekáno gave a short cry. “Then what was the point of saving him, if he is to die anyway?”

“Do not think so, my son. It is better to die in the arms of friends and family, than in the arms of a foe.”

“And are we not now foes to  _them_?” came the bitter reply. “Why else would they have burnt the ships?”

Remembering the change he had glimpsed in his half-brother, Ñolofinwë voiced not his own opinion. There was more than mere presumptions of who was and wasn’t a foe in play, though his own still raw anger refused to acknowledge this fact in any great depth. His wisdom did, urged his consciousness to do the same, but anger was a potent thing. Potent enough to end with the tip of a sword against a brother’s throat.

At the very least, Maitimo had not thought of his kin still across the Sundering Sea as foes and himself was no foe to them (for all Mahtar’s concerns, for all their logic and soundness, he refused to believe that a Vala could bring one of his father’s House so low).

“Do you remember what Arakáno’s last words were?”

Too far away they had all been that fateful day (too damned far), but not so far as to be rendered death to the final wild cry of his wildest son:  _“Avenge me! Make them pay!”_ And if he had meant the orcs or the Helcaraxë, Ñolofinwë could only speculate. Fresh off the Grinding Ice as they had been, he could only suppose his Doomed Arakáno had meant both.

  _Ah._ That brought to light at least some of his eldest’s inner turmoil.

“I am sure your brother would not grudge you your rescuing of Maitimo,” he said. “I suspect he would have accompanied you in your heroic undertaking.”

“That does not change what he said.” Findekáno frowned, at his cousin or at himself it was hard to tell. “I couldn’t leave him there. I wouldn’t leave him there for a moment longer than I needed to if I had to do it all again, but that sentiment doesn’t change what Arakáno said. I am- was his eldest brother and it is not my duty to uphold his request as best I can where I failed to save him in person? Perhaps, if he truly did mean Fëanáro and his sons, the hand would be payment enough. Yet, I cannot say that I took it out of maliciousness. The only other way to free him-” He closed his eyes, frown deepening at whatever thoughts plagued him. “Yet, perhaps being alive is a better fulfillment.”

It was a strange statement, but not wholly so. Arakáno had never been one to think of killing as a first solution, despite his how he had tended towards more physical pursuits like hunting.  

“You did the right thing,” Ñolofinwë said. “Whether or not you believe Arakáno would have thought so. We are not the Enemy, even if we do not quite, at this point in time, see eye to eye with those of our kin across the lake.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” his son said. “The hatred that permeates our people sometimes seems so palpable that it might forge itself into a sword and hew off the heads of my uncle and cousins. Artanis would probably burn their faces off with her glare alone if she saw them.”

“We are…divided.”

“And he lies on the other side of the division.” Now the younger elf’s attention was back on his cousin. “As much as I hate to admit it, he must have stood with them. I still stand by what I have done, but… The things he said on that cliff! He abandoned us, left us to the Helcaraxë and then had the gall to ask me-” He cut himself off.

“To ask you what?”

Findekáno turned his head away. He would give no answer that night. Indeed, it seemed that his pondering during the past nights had led him down a darker path in his mind than the one it had been on when they had first conversed about his latest venture, shock no longer dulling things like doubt. Ñolofinwë debated with himself. Came to a decision.

“Maitimo-”

The younger interrupted him. “Will he survive this? Tell me plainly and honestly, father.”

“I do not know, Findekáno, but-”

“Ai! I have all but killed him! He betrayed us, yet this knowledge of my actions only deepens the grief I carry. If he dies now, then I fear my heart will never recover. Arakáno was bad enough, but to lose him… It would be like losing you, worse even. Always he has been there, a steady fixture even only as an intangible thought in the snow for me to alternatively curse and plead. It was he who taught me how to ride, how to steal honeycomb from a beehive without being stung, how to weave daisies into circlets and fold leaves into tiny boats to sail, how to-” There was a choking sound, guttural and painful even to the ear. That heart-shaped face turned up towards him, the shine of tears plain for all to see. “How could he have betrayed us? Betrayed me?”

Ñolofinwë stayed silent. Those eyes, those blue, blue eyes which spoke of such torment and pain within the fëa hurt to look at. Hurt to think of if the worst should come to pass. Even now, even after everything, Elwenë, Arakáno, his son had gone. Had journeyed to Angamando and, mercifully, returned. That type of love always wrought the greatest hurts, and the tighter it held, the more hurt if could inflict. So wisdom bade his tongue be silent. There would be time later to explain, whatever the outcome was to be.

Instead he offered an arm to his son, drew him in by the shoulders and stayed there until Findekáno had composed himself once more.

“I want you to take rest in your own room,” Ñolofinwë said. “Then to deliver a full report to Lord Mathar and the scouts. Speak at length to the cartographers so we might know better of this land, and then help your brother with further improvements of the settlement’s structures. Or else help Findaráto with the many tasks he has found himself with in his father’s wake. Just do something that requires you to anywhere but here. Let our people see you. Let them know they can still trust in us as their princes. You must resume your duties, son, even if it is the most minimal of them. As your Lord I cannot let you continue in idleness when we have need for you. I cannot afford any more chinks in the armour we must provide for our people as their leaders. Please do not make me order you to do this.”

Findekáno bit his lip, but soon lowered his eyes and nodded. He came forward for another embrace and the elder let him. “I shall endeavour to make you proud of me.”

“Fool,” his father muttered fondly into his ear. “You have already done so thrice over. Just make our people proud too.” A hand brushed unbraided hair. “And know this – you have killed no one, whatever the outcome may be. More than likely Moringotto used some dark magic to help sustain him for as long as he was on that cliff.”

They drew apart then in understanding. Findekáno promised to find another relative or healer to sit with his ill cousin so his father did not have to and Ñolofinwë gave his thanks. The younger then to his leave, leaving the other elf to sit patiently for his replacement.

Ñolofinwë turned to the owl.

“You can tell your friend that his brother will not wake for a while yet,” he said. The owl twisted its head backwards to star at him from those yellow eyes. “And tell him to have patience. He cannot be sending animals every night to see for him. We will not harm his brother, though the abundant presence of animals might. I mean no insult to you, of course.” Who knew what a bird might take offence to?

The rest of his words the Lord spoke in that language meant for the creatures of Ilúvatar who were not blessed with the greater intelligence of elves, a little rusty and a little sloppy in his use of it, not entirely fluent as he never would be, but adequate enough to get his message across. The bird stirred itself from its temporary roost and, after Ñolofinwë had stroked its head a few times with a long finger, flew through the window he opened and back to the other side of the lake.

He spent the next short while keeping vigil over Maitimo, imparting more of his power to the flickering fëa he felt there and generally contemplating nothing much at all. It did not take long for his replacement to come in the form of Turkáno who murmured a greeting before settling his tall frame on a stool he had brought, the chairback too low to be comfortable over a long period of time. Ñolofinwë bid his farewells and stepped out the room just in time to hear a knock at the door to the entrance.

 _Lalwen_ , he thought, half exasperated, half fond. When he opened it, however, it was not his sister.

The elf bowed to him. “Lord Mahtar has an urgent message for you, my Lord.”

“Well?” Ñolofinwë asked. “What is it?”

The message was given and the elf who bore it given further instructions to carry on with in the dwindling hours of the night. His Lord-Prince rose to meet the new tasks that had risen in his wake, passing on further instructions to his sister when she finally came wandering home. When dawn came, Ñolofinwë went riding. At his side gleamed a sword, a shield, half a dozen spears, and twenty elves similarly armed and similarly driven.

There were orcs who had taken up residence the hills close by their settlement sometime in the night, though far enough away to pose no significant threat. They would not be there for long.

The orcs seemed to smell them coming before they arrived. They stood in a cluster – no more than thirty – snarling and gnashing their teeth. One called out a command as the elves, having lost the element of surprise, attacked outright and it was this orc’s head that Ñolofinwë sent his first spear through.

The rest was like a dance that ignited all the nerves in his body to the rhythm of his adrenaline laden heart.

Two orcs leapt at him from afar, their strong legs carrying them the greater part of the distance. Ñolofinwë closed the rest, meeting them both in the air with another spear in hand. They fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and weapons. The elf received a glancing cut from one curved sword and returned the favour in kind with the head of his spear before it was cut in two by the axe the second orc wielded. Ñolofinwë rolled, came up sword drawn and lunged forward once more, bringing steel to steel. Once, twice, and the third his blade slipped through to his foe’s throat. A guttural cry and the orc was dead. The other roared and doubled his furious attack.

Spinning, Ñolofinwë avoided the arrow that whizzed past him, leapt up to grab the second and plunged it into the gap in the orc’s armour. The blow was just shy of its neck and it roared again, this time in dumb pain. Forgoing its weapon, it lifted a leg and kicked the elf in his stomach. He doubled over reflexively as the axe was raised again. A moment later an elven sword cleaved its way through the axe-wielder’s brain.

“We need to get rid of their archers,” the elf who had saved him said.

Ñolofinwë grimaced, still trying to catch his breath – he would have a bruise on the morrow. Two of his elves had retreated to safety, too wounded to risk battle any further. Most of the others were bleeding, various expression of savageness upon their faces. Their Lord turned his gaze to where his rescuer pointed. The two orcs who wielded recurve bows were drifting about the edges, mostly focused on the elven archers caught in the fray with their detestable brethren.

His breath finally evening out, Ñolofinwë straightened. “Keep their attention off me.”

The other elf nodded and they split ways, one to act as a distraction and the other the harbinger of doom. Edging out of the fray into the tree line surrounding the clearing, Ñolofinwë moved carefully towards the pair. He adjusted the grip on his sword, watching as his companion charged them with several other elves he had picked up along the way – most of the orcs were dead now. The two archers drew back their bowstrings. Ñolofinwë leapt. In one fluid motion his sword slide across the throat of one into the skull of another. The creatures screamed and fell twitching to the ground in the final throes of death. It was finished.

Satisfaction crept upon him as he directed groups to scout for any foes who had escaped their attention and others to rifle through the haphazard orc camp for anything that might be of use. The wounded were quickly patched, the two most severely so already sent off on horseback to their settlement. The rest followed at a more leisurely pace once their tasks were completed. Cheer hung thick about them and there would no doubt be some rowdy drinking that night. It had been a victory, albeit a small one.

_If only Morringotto could be so easily defeated in battle._

The thought dulled some of his cheer and Ñolofinwë cursed it for doing so. Still, he had been the one to think it and it was better to be cautious than to become blinded by some perceived invulnerability. That said, it was also a bad thing to always dwell on the negatives. Sometimes a release was good and so the Lord indulged in a quick round of one of their finer wines with those he had accompanied before parting ways to tend to his duties.

The rest of the day passed rather uneventfully. It was a welcomed change of pace. By the time the stars began to make themselves known more fully in the sky, a pleasant buzz had settled over him and not from the wine he had partaken in earlier as his sister jested. Findekáno had done as he had asked and Mahtar had seemed at least somewhat pleased, so that was another issue he could put to rest for now.

The elf stretched in his room, rubbing his stomach beneath the shirt he wore. It was definitely bruised – Lalwendë, the kind sister that she was, had laughed when she had seen it before dabbing some ointment on it. His message to Fëanáro was done, though he had received no reply yet from the first. Still, a deal was a-

“There’s an elf waiting for you in the main room,” Lalwendë said as her head suddenly appeared around the edge of his door. “Don’t forget to rub ointment on that bruise in the morning either. Or to clean that cut you got.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, pushing her aside to exist the room. “Did the elf say what he wanted?”

“He tends the aviary, so I presume it is a message. Of course, he refused to give it to me.”

“And I am sure you will survive to see the morning,” her brother said dryly.

Lalwendë huffed and tossed her hair, taking her leave. “We shall see. And don’t forget that ointment!”

Ñolofinwë rolled his eyes and went to greet the waiting elf. His sister, of course, was right. It was a message for him.

 “From the other side, my Lord,” the elf emphasised. His face screwed up in distaste though he did his best to stifle it. Ñolofinwë had remarkably more success.

“Thank you.” He nodded a dismissal. His hands sought to tremble with trepidation, but he fought against it. It was, after all, just a message.

Nevertheless, it would be best to read it in the privacy of his room.

Turkáno was reading to Itarillë again, Findekáno adding his musical voice to the effort. A peek into his nephew’s room – the owl was back and asleep on Írisse’s dozing head – then he retreated to his own chambers. There he opened the message by the light of his still burning candle.

Black fingerprints marked the paper wherever it had been folded – this was not unexpected. His half-brother was a renown smith after all and they now had more need of smiths than ever before. No doubt it had been penned in his forge or shortly after he had left it. Ñolofinwë read:

_Ñolofinw_ _ë Aracáno,_

_Give my thanks to Ewinadur. If he has need for herbs or other healing condiments, tell him to pass a list along. I will see that it is fulfilled._

_I need not remind you of our deal. I will uphold my end. You uphold yours._

_~ F_ _ëanáro_

The entire thing seemed an insult. A refusal to use the title Ñolofinwë’s linage should have granted him. A thanks only to the healer treating his son, not to Ñolofinwë for passing on the message and housing his child in the first place. And the gall it must have taken to write that final line, as though he had been the betrayer and his half-brother the betrayed, not the other way around. Rage in its full, unaltered glory would have consumed him then and there if not for the curiosity of Fëanáro’s signature. Only his mother’s name; no father-name, no title of High King or Prince or Lord. The latter could be explained, perhaps, by the elf not wishing to incite the wrath of the one who held his eldest son hostage by all but actual intention. The rest of the message could even be passed off for his half-brother’s inept ability to speak civilly and diplomatically at the best of times. Yet, this was no reason not to use the name given unto him by his father. Fëanáro had loved that name enough, had loved their father enough to pass it to the son most like him (a slight, perhaps, to Maitimo, though the elf had never taken it as such). Ñolofinwë knew he had taken up his mother-name in grief and clung to it with an unhealthy obsession as though it could bring his mother back if uttered enough times. Surely upon Finwë’s unjust death his half-brother would have taken it up too.

But no. Fëanáro had signed only as Fëanáro just as he always had.

Ñolofinwë berated himself. He was overthinking it. That arrogant elf had done what he had always done. Why should he change his ways now they were in Arda and not in Valinor?

Finwë’s second son screwed the paper up and fed bit by bit to the candle beside him. The action gave him some satisfaction, but only some. No matter. He other duties to attend in the light of day where treachery was absent and, if it was not, could be easily seen. The dark could keep its acolytes to itself.

He left the candle burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently elves don't sleep much and do sleep with their eyes open. So I ran with it. Also you *can* apparently catch an arrow midair if you are trained well enough. I'm not sure how this chapter turned out overall, but ah well. Please leave a review if you feel so inclined. I love receiving thing.


	5. Chapter 5

There was screaming in the air. High. Persistent. The guttural cries of death. A sword came swinging, sharp and keen, into the vision of another about to die. It followed through the motion to its end with no remorse and no small bit of satisfaction.

“There are more coming!” a voice cried.

_Let them come._

“Hold fast,” came the voice of a veteran captain who knew best that to win meant little fleeing. “Meet them head on. Archers!”

“Archers!” came the greater cry of the King.

The archers among them rose to the challenge, those among the general throng of things now pulling back to fire upon their enemy’s reinforcements. Kánafinwë took over then, wrestling some order back into their ranks. In front of them, the elves whose own speciality at war laid elsewhere finished off the last of the original fiends and clustered together to meet this new threat.

“ _Loose!_ ” And the orcs shied from the sound of that tremendous golden voice too, perhaps more than they shied from the volley. “Pick them off as you can!”

There was rage in the air and it was not at all orcish in nature.

Swords sung through the air, meeting and crashing onwards through poorly executed parries until it was flesh they met. Above the sky blackened momentarily – though not as black as it had been in at the murder of Finwë and in the long days after – as another volley of arrows flew true to their targets. Seconds later a second volley answered and now the elves were the ones to cower from such fierce death.

This time, the guttural screams came from the elves.

Their King grit his teeth. These reinforcements were different. They were certainly not the sloppy irritants that often plagued the patrols, nor the hapless and near mindless droves who followed their commanders’ orders with a dark unquestioning manner. No, these were orcs bred for the explicit purpose of war. Their shields were sturdier. Their strategies sounder. Behind the initial reinforcements came a more formidable wall across the plain, a fortress designed to be nigh impenetrable by any rash fool who would think to hurl themselves at it with all the fury of an elf scorned.

(That rashness had been cured of him thirty years ago. How well it had been cured when his rashness had led to his almost death and to his precious eldest son falling into the hands of a monster.)

The wall approached under the cover of their archers and the last of their dying forerunners.

“Together!” screamed a captain in the eloquent elvish tongue. Those who could heed him did their best. “Shields! Form a wall!”

But two walls were unlikely to end in any swift sort of breaking for either one. Their forces were already fatigued from the first half of the now extended battle. The King ground his teeth. There had to be another way. _There has to be-_

Cunning eyes glanced sidewards from behind a hastily raised shield and saw the gap to the right of their enemy’s flank offering a path into the midst of an otherwise seemingly impenetrable barricade. He the elves who had lingered nearby it. With less words and a series of sharp gestures, the King made his thoughts known. As one they began to creep soundlessly across the ground. Above the volleys continued their war to own the sky.

_Not for long._

It was easy enough at first to slip between the bodies of already fallen orcs, dashing from cover to cover with shields raised while those elves who did not accompany them offered a distraction to keep the eyes of orcs away. It was a plain they were battling in, which in itself offered little ways of cover. Ideal to avoid surprise attacks. Less ideal for what the King and his warriors were attempting now.

Orcs were starting to notice that the elves were not where they were supposed to be.

Drawing a shorter knife, not eager to engage with longer and subsequently more noticeable blades, the King among them brought it up into the throat of one such fiend. Around him his warriors did the same. They caught the bodies, lowered them as quietly as possible before moving onto the next sparse grouping of orcs who kept the main flank from their reach. If beady yellow and feral eyes were somehow itching to turn their way these eyes were swiftly caught up again as a great voice rang through the plain. Collectively the orcs all cringed.

Kánafinwë was holding his own, keeping their archers in place and generally displaying all the regalness of a Prince at war. His own arrows had run their course. Yet, never did such a thing deter an elf such as him. Half the arrows now in his quiver had been plucked from the ground and corpses strewn about it, and half he fired from his bow were plucked straight from the air itself to be turned back on their owners, a skill only the best of those with bows could master with fluency. Every once in a while a few short sounds would fall from his lips and these too joined the battle in the air.

The King and his warriors sidled on. Closer. Closer… A sort of fog raised about them, drawn by the words of one elf or another who had no little skill in such summoning. Closer. Closer-

They struck.

Like spies come to slit unsuspecting throats in the night, the elven warriors fell upon their foes. The first orcs fell screaming behind their shields. The next were not caught so unawares. Indeed, it took some effort to fight through the smallest portion of them to break through those ghastly shields and meet their comrades on the other side. Yet, it was a task the elves relished in. Black blood bathed them. Steel sung sweetly in their hands. And their faces were as terrible as any orc’s.

A spear swept through the air and impaled one of Moringotto’s spawn who thought to slay the King. Another orc fell to the King’s swift blade. A third seemed to burn from the sheer intensity of the Spirit of Fire alone.

It was then the call came, derisive laughter meant to stir the blood of King’s and fathers into a haze of rage. “Come now, Fire Spirit, let us see what your true mettle is.”

The King turned and met the stare of the Orc’s commander, a mighty beast that stood above the majority of those it commanded. Tall as an elf it was. As tall as him.

Fëanáro bared his teeth and that thing bared its own teeth back. The tide of bodies parted between them and as one they lunged forward, locking blades as one might force two different bars of magnetite together. With great effort, the two wrenched their weapons apart and struck again, over and over and over. Their strength seemed a match. Their ferociousness was too. For a long time neither one was able to gain any sort of substantial upper hand. Then the orc’s blade faltered as he tripped on a prone hand behind him. Without pause, the elf King swooped between his broken defence and let his sword bite deep into orcish flesh – though it was not a fatal wound.

Nevertheless, its pained cry was sweet music to Fëanáro’s ears.

How his limbs ached still for vengeance. The son in him wished to rend every last one of these fiends into pieces to be fed to the wild beasts of Beleriand. The father in him wished to vanish even those eaten pieces from the world. This fury made him strike again, but the blow was wild and ill-made. The orc’s snarling face broke into a grin and brought its own blade curving down to Fëanáro’s now exposed head.

The elf barely blocked it in time. His shoulders screamed at him their agony, that one ropy scar left by some dark magic in a balrog’s whip between them, already twinging from the effort of prolonged battle and long unbroken hours in his forge, now pulled unbearably taught. He managed to push the orc’s sword away from him, before his own arms fell unresponsive to his need.

The orc grinned horribly. “You give more easily than even that cur son of yours when my fingers locked around his throat.” He lunged at Fëanáro who barely managed to dodge away. “I regret that I spent little enough time in the Pits to see my esteemed captive put in his rightful place and justice extracted for each of my soldiers he killed. Such a pretty face he had.” It stepped closer to his adversary, foul teeth now exposed as black lips stretched wider. “There were elves alive still when we at last secured him. These we made him watch as we hung them with their own hair.”

Fëanáro roared and lunged forward. The orc deflected his blow, pushing him aside with a kick. The elf failed to fall, but his sudden lack of balance was enough a disadvantage to allow the orc’s sword to once again descend upon his head. For a moment, Fëanáro wondered how well Moringotto would take it to learn this commander of his had killed the Spirit of Fire so renown among the Noldor and so loathed by him.

Then a great peel of sound slashed through the air. Clear. Pure. As gold as sunlight itself. The commander stumbled. Fëanáro’s sword swung up to meet its head.

And it was done. In that last moment the winners had been decided and they were not the shadowed things.

Fëanáro straightened, wincing at the ache in his shoulders. He would need to massage them, but for now he would continue to bear it. The elf glanced around first for his son – Känafinwë met his eyes briefly, the worry in their dark depths also fading, before turning to help tend to the injured – before glancing around at the elves he commanded. These great warriors stood half hunched, but with weary grins on their faces. The outcome of the battle pleased them greatly as they talked and cheered, and several began to sing. Overhead the sun shined bright, revealing the victory of the elves, his elves, in all its brilliant glory. The plain, however, stunk of death.

_Well, there’s not much to be done about that._

Several orders passed from his lips to those around him, basic things that any leader need to ensure in the aftermath of any battle: scouting, a small guard around the perimeter, another around the King and Prince among them, and immediate transport for those most wounded back to their settlement. Mostly the great elf clapped his comrades on the back, thanking them for their bravery. None of his elves had been lost and that was something else to be thankful for too. Since the tree had faded there had been so much death. So many of the fair children Ilúvatar had wrought had gone into the cold embrace of Mandos and his Doom. Father-

Even now the grief still ensnared him, like that grief he felt still for his long-gone mother. That latter grief had mellowed with age, with the taking of a wife and begetting of seven precious children, though it was no lie that the smallest thought of poor Míriel made his heart clench painfully in his chest. His grief for Finwë remained a pounding fist of anger thirty years on.

It was said that the way of elves and all living things to weep and move on, but now those who had said as such to that elfling Prince whose unspent tears shone in his eyes like stars had too found true grief to be ceaseless. Fëanáro could have laughed. Would have had he not sought to temper his twisted glee at such a thing. For years he had endured the tutting of others at his sadness. For years he had fought against the claim that he was too absorbed by his own moroseness. They said he did not understand his own feelings or what he was supposed to feel. Some even said he was broken.

“Bah.” The word was bitter, more bitter than he wanted to be in light of the victory he had won. The King forced himself away from such thoughts and responded with what was not wholly false cheer as yet another elf expressed their pride. Fëanáro sighed.

Then something caught his eye and it was as though the world went mute.

While the others partook in their post-battle duties and revels around him, Fëanáro bent and reached one shaking hand to the neck of the orc commander he had killed. With just as much trepidation, he removed the parchment from where it peeked forth behind crudely wrought armour. It was folded, but the seal he recognised easily. A chill ran itself up his back. There had not been one for so long…

“Father?”

Stuffing the letter into his clothing, Fëanáro turned and scrutinised his second son. “You are well?”

Kánafinwë nodded, though he seemed to be favouring one leg. “And you? I saw-”

“It is nothing,” his father replied. The elf’s hands moved of their own accord to grip his son’s shoulders, to brush at his hair and his face, never quite capable of refraining from touching those he loved. (Except… He couldn’t bring himself to think of that and could _not_ fail to bring himself to. As a father- As a father…)

 _Nothing!_ Kánafinwë’s voice rebounded in his head, furious, though clearly the elf himself was aware enough to voice such fury against his father and Lord and King through the privacy of oswanë. _That orc nearly took off your head!_

Fëanáro frowned. _Nearly, but he did not. And what of you? Should you be walking on that leg? Has it been tended to?_ But his stubborn son was not so easily deterred.

 _You are our King! Should something further happen to you-_ Kánafinwë cut himself off, his eyes taking on a suspicious glint. _Your back._

_See to your leg, Kánafinwë._

_I am right, am I not?_

_Your leg, Kánafinwë, or shall I see to it for you?_ Fëanáro’s tone brooked no disobedience, commanding like a King’s should be, and Kánafinwë could do naught as he abruptly closed off his mind. “I think it is time we returned. See to your company.”

Father and son parted ways, calling their mounts to them and drawing up to the heads of their respective groups of elves. Fëanáro assessed everyone once more. He nodded to himself, mostly pleased with what he saw. A short order and they were off in the wake of the more seriously wounded, back to the place they now called their home.

(A face flashed before him as it had for years, plain and lovely and distant. He ignored it.)

They were greeted with cheers upon their arrival, Ambarussa both slinking among the rooftops to better watch the procession of victorious elves back into their settlement. In the sunlight their red hair looked like blood.

 _Get down from there,_ Fëanáro snapped at the older of the two.

Pitafinwë gave him the equivalent of a semi-abashed shrug in oswanë. _Yes, father. Welcome back. Tell Káno too._

Then he was gone, like a bird flitting from its fragile roost off to explore the vaster skies that lay before it. Another glance towards the roofs proved his words had been heeded. The constriction assailing his heart eased a little.

The sounds of everyday life of the rebel Noldor perforated the air: neighing horses, baying dogs, mingled conversations and the laughter of the few children who had been born this side of the Sundering Sea. There was the generic thumping of less fragile wares being moved about and the gentle tinkering of those more fragile things being carted from one end of the rough road to the other. There was also the cutting of wood and rolling of stones not yet placed in their buildings, the tramping of many feet, the clapping of hands in joy and irritation and determination, the shouting of those in disagreement, and, of course, the ever-soothing harshness of ringing anvils formed a rhythmic beat to the rest.

As the company of warriors began to disperse, Fëanáro drew his horse up short until he was in line with his second son. “Clean yourself then send a messenger to Turcafinwë to attend a meeting in the main hall. Drag him by his ears If you have to.”

“Yes, father.”

So the company dwindled to but a few tired warriors, the King’s own sparse guard and the King himself. Asking the warriors for a little more of their time, he had them pass on messengers to the others who would need to be present at this next council.

“Where do you go to now?” Ehtyar asked, one of the oldest elves to form Fëanáro’s guard and the Noldor’s settlement itself.

“To wash this blood off, then to the meeting.” Fëanáro allowed himself a sigh and flexed his fingers, his hands, his arms, his legs – they all had that after-battle stiffness. His dully aching back and shoulders were no help either. “You should tend to yourselves as well. I doubt I am in need of a guard now.”

Ehtyar nodded, sent the others off, then followed him. At his King’s look he raised an eyebrow. “I can tend to myself well enough at your house, can I not?”

“You are ever the dutiful, Ehtyar,” Fëanáro replied without much argument. It was true. Though Ehtyar was reserved, his thoughts often held tightly to his chest like a babe by an overprotective mother so much so that his Lord could not discern them, if he disagreed at all with anything that had been done he did not let it interfere with his responsibility. First a guard to Finwë, now to Finwë’s eldest son, his loyalty, at least, was assured.

The two were quick upon reaching where the King’s residence resided at the centre of the settlement. They removed their armour and a servant set about to wash it, Ehtyar’s first at Fëanáro’s command. The warrior set about cleaning his spear, a mighty weapon that had sent many an orc to their doom. A clean shirt, waylaying the need for a tunic in preference of a need for speed, and Fëanáro was heading back towards the door.

“You don’t want to take a moment to see to your injuries? I know you were kicked. And your back too – you are very stiff and have been since the battle ended.” Ehtyar’s voice was just that, a voice with no ulterior motive, an older elf offering a suggestion to a younger one all the while focused on the task at hand. In this case, it was fingering the splintering on the shaft of his spear with a frown.

“If I were more grievously injured, I would know by now, as would you.”

“Very well.”

Fëanáro regarded him, only barely managing to refrain from reaching up to rub at his shoulders. “And there is no need for your presence at this council. I shall be well enough in my own settlement with two of my sons in attendance. Your time this day would be better spent training the other warriors or pursuing whatever hobby it is you wish to pursue. Take some time for yourself.”

“Thank you, your Grace.” Reticent as ever.

Fëanáro closed the door behind himself, only half certain that Ehtyar would no longer be present upon his return. The elf’s dark eyes and dark hair did nothing to aid in deciphering the mystery about him, nor his usual stoic, taciturn manner. The King could remember that even as a child, gazing into those nigh black eyes had been akin to gazing into the soul of an ashen cold forge when the mingling lights were at their weakest, an impenetrable darkness woven from indifferent shadows. Judgment rested there, but there was never any telling what it had been. There was never any telling with an elf who rarely smiled.

Finwë’s eldest son shook himself and continued on his way.

It was only a short way to the meeting hall, a fair building still roughly constructed and yet awaiting the embellishments of master carpenters. Huan laid outside, the great hound wagging his tail half-heartedly upon seeing him. With only a momentary pause in his stride, Fëanáro bent to scratch him behind the ears. By the time the eyes of his most esteemed people, Lords and Ladies and captains and masters in various skills, rested upon him, the great Noldo had straightened again and it was the King that shone from his eyes.

“I have asked you here to discuss the matter of our continuing war with the Enemy,” he began as Turcafinwë rose from the secluded wall he leaned on and Kánafinwë leaned forward on the chair he sat, his injured leg now bandaged and resting comfortably. “Today we faced a victory in eliminating the horde of orcs closest to our settlement – a good several leagues away from the farthest farm.”

“And a good victory it must have been, if the revelling I passed was any indication,” broke in a good-humoured elleth by the name of Tuylallë. She was young, but a fierce opponent in any battle of wit and a dedicated follower of the Fëanorian cause.

“Aye, our warriors fought well,” Kánafinwë said, inclining his head.

“And I believe they shall continue to fight well in the coming years,” Fëanáro said. “But we must turn our thoughts now to better plans and a more cohesive manner of attacking the Enemy than simply picking off those of his forces closest to us.”

“A direct attack on Angamando?” Tuylallë asked.

“What else?” Fëanáro replied. “That murderous Valar thinks himself safe inside his walls, thinks his walls are impenetrable and yet did not one of our kind steal his way both in and out with a great treasure indeed? We are Noldor! To us went the pride and the ambition and the longing for greatness we will achieve here on these besieged shores so that we might taste freedom in all its peaceful splendour. Already our names will be written and sung of in the histories of our people – how much longer can we make the song? A thousand verses will be made of us before this war has ended, I can promise you that. And most sung of will be when those gates fall beneath our might. Aye, I propose an attack on the stronghold of Moringotto.”

Like before, like every time before when the silver-tongued Prince had spoken of reason and freedom and glory, the others ate up his words. There was a clamour of agreement, none so vocal as Tuylallë and his second son, but so too came a single vein of disagreement too.

“We have already tried and suffered great loses in doing so,” Turcafinwë said. There was an undercurrent to his voice there and his father wholeheartedly ignored it.

“An attack on Angamando itself, the fortress from where all the shadows that plague us reach, is the path I see before us,” Fëanáro continued. There was a faint buzzing in his blood, an echo that promised to grow as impassioned flames fed it. He let it grow, though tempered. For now, in any case. “We have much to do before such an attack, of course. Training of our warriors will need to be increased, more healers trained amongst those willing. The smiths shall have their own duties as well for we have need of great weapons and armour.”

So it went as he ran through the logistics of such an attack, heard suggestions for the bare bones of a budding strategy and worries to pursue at a later date. Kánafinwë added much to the conversation, an unusual zealousness tinging his words as he agreed to everything his father asked. An attack on Angamando – both elves could see it, the felling of that accursed Thangorodrim and the absolving of the guilt that had cone to rest of them more heavily during the events of the past days. By contrast, Turcafinwë offered little. He remained in his secluded place and his only true contribution came during discussions about the further scouting needed to learn of the terrain closer to Angamando. The fair elf’s comments were short, more clipped and crude than they should have been of a Prince.

Overall, the meeting did not last long. It was, after all, just an initial one to direct their attentions towards the ultimate goal. There would be more after, but, like plating on a fine piece of jewellery, these finer points would come in time. Fëanáro dismissed the Lords and Ladies, and then the captains and masters after several more quick words, leaving him alone with his two sons.

“How is your leg?” he asked of Kánafinwë.

The Prince shrugged one shoulder. “It is just a gash. The healers said I should try and stay off my leg for the rest of the day, but on the morrow it will be well enough on the mend that, as long as I don’t partake in any battles, I can move about freely again.”

“That is good to hear, my son,” Fëanáro said. He came to clap Kánafinwë on the shoulder. “You fought well today and commanded the archers even better.” The younger elf dipped his head in thanks, wordless in his gratitude as always despite his perchance for words. His father then turned to the other elf in the room. “And what of you, my hasty one? I would have thought you would be chomping at the bit to see the Enemy to his demise, and yet you were most quiet today. Why is that?”

His hasty son crossed his arms. “I rather thought there were other matters we should be focusing on.”

“Oh?”

Turcafinwë drew in a breath.

From the corner of his eye Fëanáro could see the wary and more notably exasperated expression of Kánafinwë. His brother only looked resolute. There was no doubt as to what was coming.

“I want to go to-”

“No." Fëanáro’s voice was firm.

“At least let me send Huan,” Turcafinwë ground out.

“No!” The elder of them whirled on the fair-haired elf. “How many times must I say it? You and that dog of yours are to remain here or in the vicinity of here if you are not off hunting or scouting or fighting. Under no circumstances are you to go anywhere in the proximity of the northern shore and the settlement there.”

“He is my brother!”

“And he is my son. I will not risk him because of your impatience.” No matter how much he itched to fly to that sorry bedside himself.

His son was not placated. “It has been a week. An entire week. Seven days since you returned from there.”

“Leave it, Tyelko,” Kánafinwë broke in.

His brother looked at him with eyes that could not hide their anguish. “How am I supposed to leave it? How can you leave it? Leave him? _Again_?”

“Enough, Turcafinwë,” Fëanáro said as Kánafinwë stepped back, hand coming to close sporadically around the locket at his neck. The smith fought the urge to rub his temples.

The impatience of his third son seemed to grow with each passing day, his deference to his father’s order wanning all the while. Twice had Fëanáro found him ready to ride off like a fool after a lover who would only spurn them at every turn: once in the morning after that first night of his return as an owl flapped around his head, and once several days later when the sun had sunk below the horizon and a great fury had taken over his face as what must have been the same owl had danced about him. Both times had resulted in arguments that were not so small as a father could have hoped for, nor a Lord and King used to obedience.

( _“I have broken promises before. What is one more?”_

 _Fëanáro saw flames and letters written in blood, but he refused to think of either of those and, in a voice darker than he had intended, had said, “You will not break your promise to me.”_ )

“Enough?” Impatient, Fëanáro’s third son had never been easily placated either when in a true rage. “Enough? Have you not already risked enough elves trying to break those walls? We will not surpass them. One perhaps, _me_ perhaps if you had let me go after Nelyo. But no. You kept me here and broke our forces on those dark walls. Our forces are not what they once were, or have you failed to notice? And to move what little we do have away from here now while our half-kin sits on the other side in their self-righteousness with Nelyo helpless in their grasp – would you risk so much?”

“I am not advising we go now, Teylko,” Fëanáro said, attempting now at a familial connection.

“No, but you are advising we go. We are at a disadvantage. A hunter knows when his prey is too much for him to take.”

“I am not an idiot.” A harsher tone now. It was always harder to maintain a distance when he felt he was being insulted, even with family, especially now with all the stress that had built up in him after the fighting and his half-brother and Nelyafinwë and Beleriand itself. The land seemed to have a quality that could stir anxiety up in the calmest of beings. “I know what I am doing. We will achieve nothing here sitting around like prey ripe for the picking.”

“I don’t agree.”

“Then you need to adjust both your grip on this reality of ours and your priorities,” Fëanáro said dryly.

“It is you who needs to adjust their priorities!” The words cut like a whip through the air. “You should be looking to Nelyo, how to bring him home or to get one of us there, not picking impossible battles we cannot hope to win. Grandfather would have-”

“Do not speak of your grandfather!” Fëanáro’s words were biting, but Turcafinwë had never been easily cowed.

“Why not? He would tell you that you were wrong.”

“You know nothing of what he would have said,” came the harsh reply. “Too busy you were gallivanting about with that flimsy Vala, Oromë, to spare your grandfather the time he deserved from you.”

“You lie!” Turcafinwë cried in outrage. “I spent much time with him hunting and exploring the forests around Tirion and Formenos.”

“But you did not know his mind and now it is too late.” The son of the murdered FInwë waved his hand and commanded, “Speak no more of him.”

“Why? Why should I let the memory of our grandfather fade because you cannot bear the words that might be said? Should not you rejoice in such memory?”

“Leave it, Tyelkormo,” Kánafinwë snapped, his gold voice cutting through the rage of the other two like a knife through butter. No doubt he used some magic with his words. Fëanáro could feel the wispy tendrils move against his fëa like foam atop an ocean’s wave, and he allowed it to do so despite the urge of his fëa to flare against the controlling touch. Kánafinwë continued, “I think it is time that you left, brother. Run your frustrations out with that hound of yours and return to us in a better and more reasonable mood.”

Turcafinwë frowned but still spoke directly to their father. “Why is it you avoid such mentions, father? Oh, I know – will you avoid me now for mentioning him, like you did Ambarussa, and Nelyo too before he was gone, because of mother and our grandfather not yet gone, but too much a coward to join us?” They were spiteful words, designed to hurt. They did, but not as much as the one saying them might have hoped.

“On your way, Turkafinwë,” Fëanáro said with some semblance of control. “You are dismissed.”

The hunter did not bow as he left, did not acknowledge his King or Lord of father, or his elder brother, in any way at all. His strides were swift and long, just as they always were, but his shoulders and head had the bearing of one who was much put upon by news he did not like at all. A door slammed and there was barking as Huan greeted his master. If one strained to the edges of elven hearing, they would know that this greeting was returned brusquely and half-heartedly. It was not hard to tell that Turcafinwë was chaffing at the end of the rope that kept him tied to the settlement and to his father’s will.

“At least he was wearing clothes,” Kánafinwë said mildly.

His father grunted. That much was true. The third son of Fëanáro was renowned for his lack of dress, as Finwë had always politely put, in the courts of the Noldor. In truth, all of Fëanáro’s sons had appeared in the middle of a court in-session in Tirion utterly naked at least once. Most had only ever done so as a young child, and only Nelyafinwë had ever done so in the presence of Ingwë and Olwë. The High King of the Vanyar, for all he blindly doted on the Valar, had been most gracious when the copper haired elfling – little more than a crawling babe escaped from his copper haired grandfather at the time – had fallen asleep on the train of his robe.

(The memory hurt, Fëanáro found, even after his eldest was no longer a captive of Moringotto. Even after he had been returned, though he lingered in another settlement without his family. His _real_ family. All he could picture was that ruined face, those hollow cheeks, those stand-out ribs one less than before-

If anything, it hurt worse.)

Still, Turcafinwë had been the most frequent offender. He had never appreciated court, had never wanted to take part in it. This his father could understand, reluctant as the great Noldo was himself to enter the political fray. Finwë, however, had often insisted. Even after his most spirited grandson had long since proved he was not above indulging in scandal ridden pettiness as retribution. It had also been, Fëanáro suspected, just as much a protest against the typical shunning and shaming of one’s naturalness by the uptight courtiers of Tirion. Turcafinwë _had_ improved as he matured, in that regard at least. Now he used mostly words and gestures to dictate his anger at someone.

Fëanáro just wished it had not been him.

The King turned to his second son. “Ensure that fool doesn’t do anything rash.”

“Was not rashness what Tyelko was named for?”

The elder elf sighed. He looked over the other with a weary eye. “Do you need help to

“No.” Kánafinwë pet at stack of papers set on a small table beside him. “I have enough here to keep me busy the rest of the day. If I need help, I shall send for Ambarussa.”

“Take care then. I have no wish to see your injury worsen.”

“It is but a scratch, father,” his son replied, smiling with fondness and weariness both. “It shall heal. As will this rift between you and Tyelko, so do not think to gnaw over it in worry the rest of this day and the coming night.”

Fëanáro smiled and kissed his son’s brow. “You know me too well.”

“Someone must, father.”

“You are a dutiful son.”

Kánafinwë gave a half-hearted smirk. “Someone must be.”

The two elves bid each other farewell and Fëanáro went his own way. Seeing to a few minor necessities about the settlement, the smith soon returned to his own house when the nagging in his shoulders grew too strong. He unabashedly hoped that Ehtyar was gone, too weary that he was to deal with the enigmatic elf, and was unabashedly glade when that hope proved true. Morifinwë, however, was present. Fëanáro sighed.

“Father,” his ruddy faced son greeted. “You look like something Tyelko’s mutt dragged in from the rain.”

“Thank you for your kind assessment,” Fëanáro replied. “But please do not mention your brother around me.”

“What has he done now?” Morifinwë sighed, but it was a rhetorical question and he did as bid. Instead he followed his father to his room and set about pulling out a chair. “I can rub your shoulders for you if they are a bother. I can see they are a bother.”

It was a kind offer and every sinew in Fëanáro urged him to take it up.

“There is no use in denying you want it,” came his son’s blunt words. “I can see the relief in your eyes at the thought as well.” For all he was harsh, Morifinwë was ever tuned to the emotions of others. Fëanáro gave in.

For a while there was nothing save idle chatter between the two, mostly on Fëanáro’s side as his son retreated to the reclusive quietness he kept even in the company of his family. His hands, though not made for smithing as an unfortunate apprenticeship had revealed, did wonders to the sore flesh that plagued his father. A note lay on the small desk in Fëanáro’s room and Morifinwë told him an elf from the aviary had been to deliver the note from his half-brother’s settlement. As the King had been in a council, the elf had left it in the care of his fourth son who had left it in his room.

At some point the conversation turned to Fëanáro’s latest works in the forge. He commented on the other smiths and the various apprentices that followed them around, remarking which ones seemed to possess an innate talent and which were too caught up with frivolous baubles to do anything worthwhile with themselves. He spoke of the new metals they had found by combining known ones, new alloys to forge into bowls and jewellery and weapons. He spoke in great detail about weapons. Of old ones and new ones, old moulds and newer ones devised from the finer orcish and Sindar weapons they had seen. He spoke of their merits and their flaws and the use to which they could be put.

Morifinwë rubbed his shoulders and said nothing.

After a time had passed and the sun was clearly nearer to the horizon than before, though not quite to the point of rendering the sky with is brilliant hues, Fëanáro told his son to stop and Morifinwë obeyed, stepping aside as his father rolled his shoulders once and then thanked him for his work. The ruddy faced elf simply bowed and sought his exit, leaving his father to himself.

Fëanáro sighed. Sometimes he wished Morifinwë’s disposition was more than what it was. He loved his son all the same, but he could wish. (Did wish. Was wishing fervently for another son that his behaviour and general state would change, and soon. Soon, soon, soon. Such change could not come soon enough.)

Fëanáro reached for his half-brother’s letter. With trepidation and an urgency that overrode hesitate, he ripped it open. Ignoring the meaningless formalities, the elf went straight to the only words that mattered.

_There’s been no change._

Fëanáro growled. Nelyafinwë would have certainly woken by now if he had been allowed to remain at his eldest son’s side. He cast the letter aside and groped for Ewinadur’s report. It was more detailed, though as clinical as ever since the first time the healer had blatantly stated he would engage in no meaningful personal contact save through Ñolofinwë. Fëanáro had tried not to care at that, failed to care in this moment. Little phrases sunk into his brain:

_The bleeding has stopped completely… His fever still wavers between a roaring fire and a dim hearth… It may break in a few days…it may not… still unresponsive, though taking in small amounts of water… bruising… scabbing… scarring…_

Beneath was a small list of herbs and other things used in the treatment of one so ill, a list the elf reading resolved to pass onto Turcafinwë and Ambarussa both. He would have to warn his insufferable half-brother that a courier would soon arrive in the next few days bringing the resources to the southern settlement. He rubbed his temples. He would have to tie Turcafinwë down to ensure his third son did not go himself.

He was right to push for an attack on Angamando, no matter what Finwë would have done. His father was dead and needed avenging, and now Nelyafinwë needed avenging too.

The great elf sat back in his chair, pondering each thought as it ran through his mind. His fingers itched for work, but the work they itched for could only be found in the Enemy’s great fortress around the Enemy’s blackened neck. They itched and itched and itched (and perhaps it was not just for vengeance they itched – a thought that went unpondered and pushed aside). He would have to mend things with his third son on the morrow if Turcafinwë did not instigate such a mending himself. Division was ill afforded in such strenuous and chaotic times, especially division amongst his family. He looked to the letter in his hand. Perhaps Turcafinwë was right, they were too few…

Fëanáro sighed and pulled himself up, in no mood to pen a response at that moment though knowing he might never get around to it if he let it rest. Taking up parchment, he wrote a short and blunt message – mostly a thanks to pass onto Ewindaur. He signed his name, the name tragic Míriel had given him. Sealed it. Left it on his desk to be taken to the aviary in the morning. A short process overall, though made longer as another sensation gradually dug its fingers into Fëanáro’s turbulent mind.

He turned towards his bed. His robes from the earlier battle still laid there, untended by the housekeeper. Usually she was not so lax, but perhaps the elleth had felt the malice burning its way through the pockets.

Fëanáro felt it now, strong and as thick as fog might be if it were made to choke the living.

Like one reached for a snake poised to strike, the elf reached for that letter which had been secured near an orcish neck. Slowly. Carefully. As though it might rear up and bite him, letting its poison seep beneath his skin and into his blood where it would settle and fester and make a fool then a dead elf out of him. Though the room was lit, it seemed as his fingers stretched nearer, the shadows grew closer around him. When they took up that tainted letter, those same shadows seemed to coat every part of his skin, thick. Suffocating.

The letter opened. His hands did not tremble, though his heart did. Fëanáro read:

_My dearest Noldo and King,_

_I hope your son has been returned safely. I should like to know of his condition – there are many here who miss his presence strongly already. They worry after him, the dears, worry that his might miss their comforts, comforts he was so readily receptive too even despite the confusion that often seemed to plague his mind. It would be a kindness to return him to us, though I should not like to part a father from his son so soon. If he is, in fact, with you._

_I should also like to know the name of the one who fetched him from that quaint little home he had made himself on my mountain. A cousin, I suspect, for you and your sons would not prove so ungracious of my hospitality given to your brethren. There are treacherous whispers that come to me on my throne, carried by sweet air all around you, and a name or two rings in it. Friendship and vengeance, they speak of. A hero fool enough to challenge me. Tell me his name, my sweet, tell me of this thief who dares to steal your son from me and from you. Who dares to take your son for his own, if the whispers are true, for some unholy and unsanctioned reason. Who dares to seek to claim your son as his own to do with as he pleases. Tell me his name – I speak only out of the desire to save you and yours from the clutches of this vile fool who seeks to undo you out of jealousy. Even now I shudder to think of what this ‘hero’ might be doing to poor, darling Mait-_

Still before, now Fëanáro’s hands shook so furiously that the paper tore. He proceeded to tear it further still, crumpling the ruined pieces into a ball and lobbing it hard back into the shadows of his room. That name would never pass from his lips to the listening shadows, Fëanáro swore to himself. Morringotto might already know, likely already sounded the syllables that made up ‘Findekáno’ on his vile tongue, but the Vala would never know from him. (Ñolofinwë would need to know, though, that the Enemy now had a new name to muse on and would know as quickly as a bird could fly between their settlements.)

The elf raged silently for several moments. How that thing had dared to use his eldest son’s mother-name after all that he had done. After the state valiant Findekáno had returned his cousin in.

 _But was he already in that state when this valiant Findekáno found him?_ a dark voice seemed to ask, snaking around his ear. Fëanáro refused to listen. _Was he already so wretched and broken, so lovely in the uttermost suffering that could be wrought upon an elf?_

He refused. The voice was but shadows and nothing more. Findekáno had done a mighty deed and dealt the Enemy a mighty blow.

Fëanáro refused to listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah. The battle did not turn out as well as I had hoped in the beginning, but ah well. It is what it is. On arrow catching: a master archer may be able to do so (though it'd be rare) with the bow not fully drawn and/or another archer working with them. Given the ability of elves, I thought a master archer there would be more capable (as Maglor is). That said, not every elf will have this ability.
> 
> Please leave a review if are so inclined. I'd love to hear what you think.
> 
> *Note: edited it so italics appeared. I realised they had not transferred across onto here from the original document.


	6. Chapter 6

She was at the gates, watching as her half-brother’s three curriers all but fled from them after having delivered some much-needed medical supplies – in fact a very generous amount – needed for the treatment of Fëanáro’s eldest son. Even now Ewinadur was nodding his head over the herbs and the jars of tinctures of arnica, knitbone and nettle. His fingers had already been stained yellow by a bundle of yarrow and were now pointing several attendants to various duties. A large jar filled with a golden substance passed between the careful hands of two such elves. Lalwendë licked her lips at the sight of it. Honey.

Still, it would be used first and foremost in the treatment of those with wounds, not as a snack reminiscent of so many others from her childhood. She was a lady now, the Lady of their people who had come across the Helcaraxë, and this meant that those easy days of trivialities were gone, or at the very least few and far between. Even the children were less carefree than they had been in Valinor. If she looked behind her, how many elflings would she see helping to lug lighter building materials to where it was need? How many daughters helping their mothers weave rough cloth from nettles? How many sons diligently practicing their archery beneath a master archer?

_Too many…and too few._

As before, Lalwendë noted the overly generous nature of the gift. There was enough to treat her poor nephew and still have some leftover for their own sick as well. Even the two donkeys that bore the goods would be of use, likely put to work on the newer farms they had expanded from the old ones that had come with the abandoned settlement. Finwë’s daughter rubbed her face. It was no surprise her elder brother looked so worn around his already thawed edges. The few years they had spent here already felt like an eon back in Valinor, so fast had time suddenly seemed to fly now there was more to do than laugh and play, more than even a monotonous pilgrimage through ice and slush and snow.

And what of those who had perished in that snow? Those who had fallen or lain and brushed a dear face one last time with stiffening fingers, before those fingers came to rest as well and eyes closed as elves eyes were not meant to close? All those fëa born away on the swirling winds of the Helcaraxë, even those winds being cold so fraught with snow they are, and the fëa of elves being swept away with the flurries set to take even more. And of the bodies left, they could be buried in naught but snow sometimes where the ground was too hard to dig and every arm too tired, no doubt soon eaten by the creatures that wandered along so that even the hroä was destroyed by that place. And those bloating bodies in the water too, floating, floating like poor Elenwë’s face as it disappeared a final time beneath the ice.

Turkáno had been understandably distraught, shivering and clutching his darling daughter to his chest. Around him half a dozen elves had been fluttering, his father and brothers and sister, his aunt and cousins and closest friends, all hovering like butterflies who did not quite know which flower they should land upon. And of flowers, there had been few there, mostly towards the end of that great ice bridge between lands and worlds. But where Elenwë had drowned were a few yellow heads defying the bright whiteness all around them, yellow heads that had been plucked and sent to float on the watery grave of a Prince’s dead wife. Lalwendë had stayed to watch their wilting petals freeze. Now they marked that place for anyone who came to pass.

 _And who will mark our graves?_ she thought as Ewinadur retreated back to his place of work with those whom he taught following. Fëanáro had spoke of greatness and songs. Others had spoken later of dreams filled by cold and smoke and bones. A great hill of bones.

The youngest daughter of Finwë raised her chin, though it trembled. She would not shy from their Doom. Nor would she bow before it. She would not.

“You think so hard, dear Aunt of mine.”

“Do I?” The words came almost automatically from her mouth. Lalwendë stepped back to look upon the fair face of Artanis, a haughty point still to her chin though it had faded somewhat somewhere along the Ice.

“Yes. You are like Findaráto – though I love him dearly – always worrying. What to do, what to do, he always asks me.” The younger elf stroked her golden braid. “I tell him to do what he should be doing.”

“And what is that?”

“Everything a Lord and Prince must do,” Artanis replied.

“It is not so easy, the transition.” Lalwendë remembered well how hard it had been for her dearest brother when he began his reign as King and that had been in quaint, soft Valinor. “To go from a Lord to one greater so suddenly is no easy thing.”

“No.” The golden haired elleth stroked her braid again, weaved of hairs so fine and light that it seemed to shine in the sunlight like Laurelin once did. She considered her aunt. “But you have a harder glint to your eye than my brother has of late. Of what were you thinking?”

“Of words that have been said,” Lalwendë replied. She grinned. “You forget that I have been alive far longer than you. You shall not pry my thoughts so easily from me.”

Artanis sulked. “You sound like Uncle did when he played at diplomat with us as children.” The sulk turned to lips pressed as thin as those of another uncle she knew. “Findaráto dreams,” she said. “Of things he refuses to recount to me or any one of our brothers. Yet, I can catch glimpses in his head when we use oswanë of chains and stone and blood.”

“Perhaps he simply dreams of your cousin,” the elder elf said. “His return has shaken us all.”

“I think it is something more,” the other replied.

“Have you had dreams too, then?”

“Strange ones and sad ones. This latest night I saw the shadow of a bird morph into something greater the farther it drew along, and as it came closer to me, I could feel the malice in its heart, though I still could not see. And fire. So much fire has plagued my dreams of late.”

Lalwendë gnawed at her lip. “Do you think-” she began but failed to finish. The words died in the air just before her, yet the idea still seeped into her mind.

On the Grinding Ice there had been times when several saw things before they occurred – gifts of Irmo and of his brother, Mandos, the Doomsayer, they would have been called if indeed the Valar would still wish to give the Noldor gifts. Once an elf with golden hair had felt a vague sense of unease while they crossed a narrow chasm between two mounts of ice. He had come to fear a mass of falling snow and had imparted this to Turkáno whom had been leading that group, cautioning the elven prince to wait. Not hours later, when some had laughed off the young elf’s words and began their crossing, a great avalanche occurred. They had lost half of those on the path – not many in the grand scheme of things, but enough for everyone to place more trust in the foresight of others. In the moment, the shock of it had been worse – it had taken Turkáno and all Findaráto’s brothers a long while to find another way through, perhaps days if the sun and moon had already been cycling through the sky for them to measure.

No, instances of foresight was not to be taken lightly.

In the present, Artanis flipped her braid off her shoulder. “I am sure they are just a product of this place. There is no question as to whom the shadow could have been.”

The eyes of both elves were drawn north. No question indeed.

“And the fire?”

“Who would not dream of fire after what we have crossed?” came the reply. “Though it may too be wishful thinking; gossip has brought the news that the Noldor’s most treacherous king was struck low by a fire-fiend. What I would not give to have been there.”

Lalwendë was shocked, despite her own anger at Fëanáro. “Surely you cannot mean that.”

“I mean it perhaps more than you would like,” her niece replied. “To see my proudest and cruellest uncle brought low. Ai! What a sight it would make, to see the great traitor king cowed.”

“Artanis!”

“I lost friends upon the Helcaraxë,” the younger elleth snapped. “Close friends whom I have known since childhood. I held one in my arms and bid her farewell in song she could not hear as she begged for relief I did not have to give, crippled by pain and half buried in snow and frozen rock from an avalanche. Her little one I had already sung to sleep. It was because of them that I lost my _friends_ -”

“We all lost friends on the Helcaraxë.” Lalwendë returned. “That does not mean we all seek a vengeance worthy of the Enemy himself.”

“Am I the Enemy then to want to watch my half-uncle beg? To watch as he cries as much as we cried when those burned ships damned us to the barren Ice, as his sons cried too for all the wrongs they have done us, and begged for forgiveness that would be slow to come, if at all? I want to see the self-proclaimed greatest of the Noldor disgraced with shame cast red high upon his cheeks. I want to see the desperate shame of my cousins as the try to atone for what they have done, to see them gone to their knees as those of us they left laugh at and pity them and see their proud faces fall like their father’s. They deserve as much, do they not?"  

Lalwendë fixed her with a resolute stare. “Even your eldest cousin?”

The daughter Arafinwë looked away.

“Even you cannot be so heartless in your fury,” Lalwendë continued. “Even you cannot wish ill upon one already so ill.” _Upon one so innocent of all the wrongs that had been done to us._ But that Artanis could not know.

“I have sung for him,” Artanis said. “In between the dreaming and the other duties I must attend. I have looked upon that broken face of his and sung and wondered still if it is right that I do so, if it is not a betrayal of our own and all those lost to the snows, a betrayal of poor Elenwë and the hurt her fall wrought upon our family, all caused by him and his closest kin. And yet-” Here she paused, pride choking her words. “And yet it feels like a betrayal if I do not.”

“Such kindness is what separates us from those we have chosen to fight,” her aunt said. “And I do not speak of those who rest on the opposite side of this lake. Unchecked anger only serves to further divide us in our already stark vulnerability so that we become easier pickings for the greatest foe this world will ever know. Your cousin is a reminder of that; but for him, we have never seen such cruel violence so deliberately wrought upon one of our own, however estranged.” And that was only what they could decipher from his wounds and Findekáno’s tales. “I suggest you do not go burning your uncle or his sons just yet.”

Her niece stared out across the lake, her eyes cold and distant. “I am not the only one who would take up such a cause.”

At these words, Lalwendë found herself wondering at the wisdom of Ñolofinwë’s decision to keep the actions of Fëanáro’s eldest a secret. She could feel the resentment oozing from the young elleth beside her, from the settlement itself out of every nook and cranny, up through the woodwork and between the cracks in stone, up through the water supply and the ground where they grew their crops of wheat and rye. Every elf seemed to exude this bitter air. Every innocent creature that wandered in seemed to contract this strange disease so even the bugs that bit those who ploughed their farms in the sun and in the dimmer light of the moon. The thought disturbed her. More so because the ooze seemed to seep from her own heart as well. _What have you done to us, brother?_ she thought and hated herself more when three faces flashed before her instead of one.

The Noldor, it seemed, had mis-stepped greatly in their bid for freedom.

 _Or the Enemy simply has cast his dark fog too thickly about us._ Lalwendë raised her chin absently. She could well pretend that the scent of sea-mingled blood had faded from her mind if she cast it to those distant songs that would soon be sung about the heroes who had come, to those great halls yet to be built about a lake where elves had first awoke, to that sense of home that was yet to come, yet to gallop in on the heels of fury and fire and passion and the promises that had driven them here in their fervour. The Noldor were great, would be great and would be remembered for Ages yet to come. They would be. _We will be. We will-_

“What else have you dreamt?” Lalwendë asked, turning from her frantic mind to her niece.

For a moment some troubled expression cast lines upon Artanis’ fair face. A shadow grew upon them, though it was chased away soon after and the lines smoothed to something sweeter in another breath. “I have dreamt too of a Lord with silver hair,” she said at last. “A tall elf, though not as tall as some cousins of mine, nor as beautiful as my own brother, but…”

Now Lalwendë smiled. “There is a fondness there, no?”

“No,” the younger blushed. “An…inclination perhaps.”

“I see.” Her aunt did nothing to hide the widening grin she bore. “Like Turkáno’s early inclinations towards Elenwë?”

But the name was bitter one and rung bitterly through the air, dampening the quaint joy that had been found there. Both elleth shifted in discomfort brought on by painful memories.

“I would not be so coy as Turkáno was,” Artanis braved at last, ever obstinate in the face of a greater force. “If one could have called it coyness. It took Findekáno and Arakáno both to get him to do more than flirt with his eyes at an unseen distance.”

“I rather thought that had been Írissë.”

“No, Írissë was the one to bring his unsent poetry to Elenwë, and her unsent letters to him. Be glad she did or else they would have taken an age in courtship alone.”

“Now, now,” Lalwendë chided, though she knew not exactly what she was chiding.

Artanis shrugged. “It is the truth.”

Her aunt sighed. “And would you take so long in courtship if, by chance, this dream of yours proved more than just a dream?”

“I know what I want, and I always know how to get it,” Artanis replied, though the blush to her cheeks and the tips of her ears proved her youthful inexperience. Lalwendë smiled. It was nice to know some things had not changed. The bashfulness of all those first touched by love foremost among them.

It was a nice thought to consider. “Perhaps this dream, at least, _will_ bear some truth to it.”

Her niece had to look away for a moment, no doubt thinking of silver hair and perhaps the bright eyes to match. Too quickly though did the face of young love fall to something more morose. Images of ice and fire and stranger things cloaked by the incessant dark flickered in those startlingly keen eyes, a distant reckoning that would one day come. Lalwendë shivered.

“I pray that other dreams do not,” Artanis said. Who she prayed to, her aunt did not ask. The elder elleth doubted it was any of the Valar back home.

She could feel the oozing again, Lalwendë, that not so subtle hatred that was creeping over everyone who dwelt in their settlement. The day’s bustle had picked up as more and more elves began to emerge from the sparse warmth of their houses out into the sunlight which did more to brush away not so fond memories of ice and snow than anything else could. Atop this oozed the shadows that were slowly consuming Arda, the Enemy’s breath that everything was steeped in.

“It is no easy task we have ahead of us,” she finally said.

“No, dear Aunt, it is not.”

Lalwendë looked to her golden-haired niece. “Will you support us, Ñolofinwë and I?” As family, as leaders – this went unsaid.

Artanis blinked her pretty eyes. “For now, at least.”

Her aunt believed her. Those blue eyes held in them all the ambition of their House, that siphoned from Finwë and from Indis too, that sought subjects over which to rule and land which could be owned. The lot of Princes and Princesses was to lead. That held for her own family as well, though sometimes she felt it shone most fervently in the eyes of Arafinwë golden headed lot. It was, in own way, a disquieting thing.

Lalwendë forced a smile. “Then why not make good on your word and help me and the other unfortunate females of our combined Houses with some weaving.”

“Do you not have others whose task it is to wield the loom?”

“Yes,” Lalwendë replied. “But sometimes it is nice to lose one’s self in such a mundane task. There is a peace to it I fear will only grow harder to find on these shores. Besides, it will allow those few females of our family time together away from the brash foolishness of the males who seem to dominate my father’s line.”

“Very well,” Artanis replied. “My brothers have been somewhat irksome lately. All they ever want to do is hunt and I have had quite enough of their tales about the beasts in this region. At one point, every fox is just a fox.”

Lalwendë smiled and engaged in idle talk, glancing back once behind her to see that Ewinadur and the other healers had well and truly gone. The donkeys too had been led away to be cared for. Now there was nothing more outside the gate save a bare patch of dirt and those elves who guarded it.

The elleth found her thoughts drifting once more to the honey in the jar, absently licking her lips again before choosing to stop by the kitchen in her brother’s halls on her way to where Írissë and Itarillë waited. The two greeted Artanis joyfully upon seeing her, even more so when she stated she would be joining them, and the four daughters of Finwë’s line sat down to begin their weaving.

It was a task usually taken up by those in the settlement burdened less by duties that more noble positions bore. Yet, Ñolofinwë himself had requested that Lalwendë take up this task. More than a chance for the females of their divided House to gather, the end goal in mind was to produce several plain garments for Fëanáro’s eldest to wear. Paranoia was an ugly thing and the chance that someone would prove vindictive enough to place a curse or some other ill omen in the woven cloth was small indeed, but her brother had thought it best to burden as a small a number of elves as possible with the needs of their nephew. So here the four of them sat, weaving and sewing cloth for their tall and bone-thin kin. Artanis helped to stich blessings into the hemlines and around the collars, Lalwendë correcting her healing runes when needed and teaching them in turn to Itarillë.

“A well-spun cloth can prove just as valuable as any armour a blacksmith might create,” she said, ignoring Írissë’s scoff.

“If you can shoot your targets with a bow, then you will need neither cloth nor armour,” the younger elleth said. “A fine excuse as any to prance around naked in the forest and enjoy nature in all its glory.”

Itarillë laughed. “You are silly.”

“Not as silly as your father,” Írissë replied, ruffling the youth’s hair. She felt the fabric they had already made between her fingers, a frown alighting on her forehead. “Do you suppose we could infuse the cloth with sage and other such herbs? Soaking them repeatedly in a solution might allow this.”

“It would not hurt to try,” Lalwendë said. “Speak to Ewinadur about it. He would be grateful for your help.”

“We could also sew dried leaves into the hemline if there was a need for stronger intervention,” Artanis added. “Turning them into paupera would help hold the scent, though it might be uncomfortable in a garment.”

“Still, it is an idea,” said her aunt. “It may well be that we need every such idea to aid in your cousin’s recovery.”

There was quiet for a while as their thoughts turned to the task at hand, each of the elder elves unwilling to dwell upon the wretched state one of their own was in. It was only Itarillë’s question that came to break this silence, softly spoken but bold in its asking.

“Will Maitimo get well again?” she said, her blue eyes coming to rest on Lalwendë.

Finwë’s daughter drew in a breath. “Ewinadur will try his best as will all the other healers with him.”

Silence fell again, dark and heavy. It was only the other night when Lalwendë had taken up her vigil at her ill nephew’s side, his eyes still closed in that unnatural sleep and his face still marred by those unnatural lines. His beautiful copper hair was still cropped short and like a statue he laid against the bed, unmoving save the slight rising of his chest, and ever looking like he belonged in his mother’s garden back in Valinor if her garden had been touched by darkness. Fëanáro’s eldest, despite his temper, had always been the fairest of that lot both in looks and in personality. He had been gentle where his brothers weren’t even in their youthful kindness, and now- And now he had been punished the most of all of them despite having done the least.

For a moment the knowledge wished to leap forth from her lips, to grace the air with the same news her brother had graced her – they were not forgotten, not by everyone upon that cursed shore. Yet, neither of her nieces would believe her and both would take grave insult from the perceived slight that belittled their horrid experiences upon the Grinding Ice. It was good news, but news that could be devastating if revealed in such a blatant way.

 _Why must politics make things so complicated?_ Lalwendë lamented to herself, but lamenting did little to change the fact it was so.

A time passed before the silence was broken again, this time by Írissë whose hands had come to still themselves as her thoughts deepened. “What happens if he doesn’t make it?”

“Let us not dwell on that now,” her aunt replied. She swallowed and forced a more cheerful expression onto her face. “How goes your hunting?”

Írissë took the out, swerving away from the darker conversation in a fashion she so rarely used when confronting everything else. Idle chatter began again, the two cousins coming to swap stories about their brothers and the antics they devised. In the middle of a story that was painting Ambaráto in a very compromising position, Lalwendë excused herself to collect more of the thread they were swiftly running out of. To her surprise and delight Itarillë sought to accompany her.

Off the two went to where the stores of thread were kept in the hall of Ñolofinwë, the younger’s hand firmly secured in the hand of the elder there. More idle chatter followed them there, mostly surrounding the lessons Itarillë was being taught by her tutors.

“Your father did not take to the intricacies of poetry writing well either,” Lalwendë said at one point, “At least not at first. Give it time, little one.”

Another point saw their conversation drift to the best flowers to use to create chains.

“Daisies are easier, but foxgloves look prettier,” came Itarillë’s steadfast opinion.

Lalwendë smiled. “When I was young, we used to braid long blades of wheat with dandelions and buttercups. Your grandfather loved to wear them in his hair.”

Yet, despite the general light-heartedness there seemed to lurk a grimmer undertone. It was hard to tell exactly what it was, but a sense of grief wafted through the air, invisible and yet quietly more potent than whatever amusing thoughts had settled over the both of them. A ghost, it seemed, hung over them and for a moment Lalwendë wondered whose ghost it was.

“Mother used to make circlets out of bluebells for father and me because the colour matched our eyes,” Itarillë said softly.

Lalwendë closed her eyes. _Of course._

“My mother did much the same thing, though she added cowslips and daffodils when the season permitted,” she said. “Findis would ask for-” What had she asked for? To not come with them to avenge their fallen father and make right the wrongs done unto their House.

So many had stayed behind. So many mothers and sisters and brothers turned cowards when faced with the displeasure of the Valar. Where were the Valar when they had needed help? When Moringotto had sewn the first of his dark seeds in the restless soil of the Noldor? But they had crossed the Helcaraxë without them, a feat even the Valar had failed to achieve in the Great Journey to Valinor, the great beings instead coddling their newfound subjects by carting them across the sea on a piece of land. Yet, their arrogance had cost them even if it had resulted in a victory. So many had stayed, but many more had been lost to that frozen wasteland, fathers, mothers, Elenwë…

“I miss her.” Itarillë’s words were plainly spoken.

“I know you do,” Lalwendë replied, thinking of the bluebell eyes of her own parent lost to Mandos’ Halls. She removed the spools of thread from their place in a cupboard, setting them down inside a basket her great-niece carried. “I have no doubt that she misses you too.”

“I didn’t want her to leave.”

The conversation was fast becoming reminiscent of many others Lalwendë had partaken in and overheard. The elleth bent, coming to wrap her arms around the younger’s shoulders. It was hard to hear the sorrow that still marked the sweet child’s voice (harder still to remember unwillingly how it matched what another elf’s voice used to sound like during the rare times he spoke of his mother), but Finwë’s second daughter never shied from whatever task laid ahead of her, however grim or hard it might be.

Drawing in a breath, she said, “Sometimes we cannot control what happens and things that we do not wish-”

“Will come to pass,” Itarillë finished. “That is what father says and grandfather says and everyone else says, but I want her to come back. I don’t want to learn sewing from you and Aunt Írissë and cousin Artanis. I don’t want to take lessons from other elleth about what mothers should teach and I don’t want to hear my father still crying those nights he thinks I cannot hear. I want mother to come back, I want everything to go back to how it was.”

Her words were in clear earnest and the silvery trail of tears had begun to mark its way down each of the child’s fair cheeks. Lalwendë made a clucking sound with her tongue, one her father had often made when she had been upset as a child to soothe her and her childish woes. Her great-niece rubbed her eyes.

“Was it my fault that she fell?” the child asked and, in asking, chilled Lalwendë’s heart.

“Absolutely not!” she said. “It was an accident and nothing more. You were too young and too tired to have had anything to do with it, little one. Your father could only bear one of you at a time and your mother ensured you went first, yet the waters proved too quick and too greedy for any to return in time to pull your exhausted mother to safety. You know this. It was an unlucky twist of fate and nothing more.”

Even so, Turkáno still refused to forgive himself for Elenwë’s abandonment, refused to let the well-meaning words spoken by his family and closest friends to sink into his heart and ease the pain that sat there. It fuelled his hatred of Fëanáro and his ilk, fuelled his desire to throw everything towards his people and his daughter to ensure her future in Arda could be as bright as the one Elenwë would not have. It was a sad sight to see.

Lalwendë brushed back several strands of hair from Itarillë’s face, tucking it back behind her ear alongside the intricate braids it had escaped from. “Why do you still worry over such things?” she asked. “The answer shall never change, and I know we cannot bring her back, but we can move on whilst holding her memory close to us.” Whilst holding close the memories of all those they had lost.

Itarillë scuffed her foot against the ground, casting her gaze downwards. She bit her lip, distress still clear upon her face. The older elf sighed.

“What is it that worries you?” she asked. “This cannot just be about missing your mother. Come now, you can tell me. I will not share your concerns if you do not wish me to. I am quite adapt at keeping secrets – I know things about your grandfather that even our father never knew.”

Her attempt at humour failed, but Itarillë did draw in a breath as though to answer. It took a moment, but eventually the words came.

“What if because mother died it makes me…” Her young voice faded to nothing.

“It makes you what, little one?” Lalwendë asked.

The child scuffed her feet. “What if it makes me…bad.”

Her great-aunt smothered a cry of dismay, instead drawing the child’s face into her palms. “Why ever would you think such a thing?” she said. “Of course not. Of course not. Your mother’s death had nothing to do with you, sweet thing. You are not bad, not at all. Like your mother, you are sweet and kind and lovely in all ways.”

“But I have heard others say that I am like him now,” Itarillë cried.

“Like who, dear one, like who?”

“Fëanáro.” The name was said with the same contempt Turkáno often spoke it with, though the softer edges proved it more a poor mimic than the real thing.

Lalwendë fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. Fëanáro – the name rang like a curse. A dead elf, a dead people and, before that, a dead mother. Always, always it returned to that mother who had passed. For how long had Míriel’s death plagued Fëanáro? How long had it been the thing that people blamed for the bitterness that had drenched the great elf’s heart and turned it towards spiteful things? An absent mother made for a troubled son. A mother who had been unstable enough to shun the norm of elven life in such an alarming way made for a son who could only do the same. Time after time Fëanáro had been compared, not to his father, but to the parent whom had left him at his birth. The affect of this, whatever it might have been in truth, always boiled down to one thing – Fëanáro’s issues began when his mother died. It had, of course, been more complicated, had always been more complicated than that single thing: a society ill-equipped to deal with such potent mourning, ever mounting pressure for the Crown Prince to move on and stand firm for his people, the veiled disdain when he proved incapable of such a feat of forgetting, and, yes, the coming of Indis into the home of Finwë.

Lalwendë had always defended her mother’s place in Finwë’s House. Against the loyal followers of Míriel she had stood, had argued in defence of the one whom had birthed her. More than once her full-blooded brothers had cause to pull her from a fight instigated by biting words in her younger days. Indis herself had always cautioned patience and a higher road built on deafened ears, shaking her head in disappointment when any of her children came to her with tales of how they had debased themselves by creating a scene out of such little words. It had been hard to watch such a gentle being turn blindly away from words that surely hurt. It was hard to see unfounded accusations and denouncing of character against a kind and wise Queen, and it was even harder to hear how her and her siblings in full never should have been. Lalwendë had always believed that those who criticised against the second marriage of her father were unfounded in their criticism. Míriel had chosen to stay gone and Finwë had asked to move on.

Upon the Helcaraxë, however, Finwë’s youngest daughter had come to a harsher realisation: her parents were not above reproach. They each had their flaws and they began around their dealings surrounding Finwë’s second marriage. Whispers had frozen in the snow along with the breath that spent them, whispers of a failure to act as unrest had mounted in Tirion, Finwë deliberately blinding himself to the rift between his children and Indis loath to interfere with the Prince who was not her own. Some said the late King had been too lenient, others Indis not welcoming enough, but even amongst the most loyal to them both, blame had begun to spread with the cold from the son to the parents of him. Bitterness liked company and resentment encouraged it, and somewhere on the Helcaraxë the Noldor had come to learn that in their hearts there was room enough for hatred of every living thing.

“Fëanáro,” Lalwendë spat and the name seemed like a curse. Yet, whose curse was it the product of?

“Am I like him?” Itarillë asked desperately, tugging upon Lalwendë’s sleeve and drawing her back to the present. “Father would not love me if I was.”

“Your father would love you whatever you did,” Lalwendë replied, doing her best to hide the strain in her voice. “He will always love you as every father does his daughter, never doubt that. He loves you dearly and it would break his heart to hear such malicious rumours being spoken of you.”

“But I am motherless.”

“So are many other elves now, on their side and on ours. That alone cannot and does not make you like Fëanáro, child. You are the farthest of us from ever being like him, let alone being bad.”

The elfling bit her lip, sniffing. “But what if it does?”

“It will not.” The elder elf paused, trying to think of what she should impart and what she should not.

Enough nephews (and not enough nieces in her own opinion) had granted her the skills to deal with children, though she had none of her own. Nor did she wish for any, much to her parents’ chagrin. Yet, now she found herself mother to those whose mothers had abandoned them through cruel fate or crueller choice. She wondered absently if this was how Indis had felt when faced with Míriel’s son. “There were many reasons my half-brother became what he is. Lacking a mother was only one of them and perhaps the smallest one. Fëanáro is a complicated elf and he had a troubled childhood, trouble which followed him past his coming of age, but he has always been proud and arrogant and quick to anger. He holds grudges that you and I would mark as irrational, and he cares not for the consequences of what he does nor for who is left to face them in his absence. He never has.” 

“He did not mean for anyone to die,” Itarillë in a small voice. At her elder’s scoff, she persisted. “He did not! He told me so.”

“And when was this?”

The youth ducked her golden head, answering in an even smaller voice. “When he left after Uncle Finno saved Maitimo from the Darkness.”

Lalwendë restrained a sigh. Having the gall to lie to a child- and yet, she knew her half-brother had not. Selfish and arrogant and paranoid he was, but she doubted he had meant for them to look to the Helcaraxë for passage to Arda and whatever crimes he had committed, however freely he had swung that sword of his in Alqualondë, she knew in her heart despite its rage that he would never wish for another’s mother to die. _Not even Indis, not even her._

Taking the elfling’s chin in her hand, wondering briefly at how much it had grown, how much Itarillë had grown through those years on the Ice, Lalwendë fixed her with a stern stare. “You are good, child. Whatever else these rumours say, they are just rumours, unfounded and created by those who have nothing better to do than let their fears consume their rationality. You are not like Fëanáro and you never will be. Not even your mother’s death can change that. Too much of her lies inside of you and will remain there forever.”

“That is what Fëanáro said.”

The innocent words stoked a strange thing inside Lalwendë. There was anger, but there was also something else, something more objective than a heart. Perhaps… But pride ran strong on all sides of their family.

“Come now,” she said instead. “Let us return before Írissë decides that an expedition to find us is more exciting than sewing clothes.”

Itarillë nodded, pausing to wipe her eyes. Lalwendë embraced the elfling and kissed her upon the forehead. From her memory she drew from a cache of wisdom granted to her by another elleth who alone had mastered for a time the erratic flame of Fëanáro. “Do not fear what shall never come to pass.”

The two stayed like that for a while, granting and seeking solace respectively. When they eventually broke apart, another would have been hard pressed indeed to tell what had transpired between them. With careful persistence Lalwendë eventually had Turkáno’s daughter giggling again, a success even if it was not full-blown laughter, and she readily left her in the care of Írissë and Artanis whilst she sought out her brother.

It did not take long to track down Ñolofinwë. A few discrete words spoken with several servants pointed her towards one of the smaller halls in the settlement where the Noldor Prince often went to work in solitude. The doors were, of course, unbarred for even in his desire to be alone, her brother did not wish to turn any away who sought his help or advice. Beyond his kindness, they had to maintain an open image with their people he had said, especially with the disquiet that came from continuing to house the traitor King’s eldest son.

( _“When he wakes will be the true test,” Ñ_ _olofinw_ _ë had confided one night. “Until then we can rely on our people’s greater desire to prove that they would not turn one so ill away, not for anything.”_

_Yet, as they had stared at their fever ridden nephew, neither could help but wish that his waking would come soon.)_

“Hello, my esteemed Lord,” Lalwendë called as she strode into the room. Her brother was bent over a table, looking at something intently.

“Lalwen,” he greeted absently. “What brings you here?”

“The tides of love and winds of duty.”

“More the latter than the former I presume.”

Lalwendë sighed. “As it ever seems to be now,” she said. “How is our nephew?”

“The fever holds strong,” Ñolofinwë replied. He still did not look up. “But Maitimo is not why you are here.”

“No.” Lalwendë came to rest at the table, one of her hips leaned against its edge. She folded her arms across her chest, drawing on a more serious expression. Glancing at several of the maps he had strewn about, she continued, “More rumours have developed about our House.”

At this her brother finally drew back, rubbing his eyes with one hand. His entire posture seemed tired, shoulders slumping and back not as straight as it usually was, even his head bowed under the weight the world had placed on it of late. It was clear he had not slept, or at least not well, and Lalwendë felt a rush of undirected bitterness well up inside her. Why should her noble brother, the great Lord Ñolofinwë, be subject to such hardships? Why should any of them?

( _There was blood and screaming and the incessant scent of salt brought forth by the angry waves. The wives and children had long since fled back into the heart of the village, but their husbands and brothers and friends stood firm against the Noldor. But their boathooks, though deadly, were not the iron of swords and their wicked knives had not the better reach. Many Noldor fell gutted like fish, but many more of the others found their end that day. When the fighting subsisted to the wailing of gulls and widows, it was mostly silver that mingled with the crimson blood that stained the sea.)_

She brushed a faint smudge under Ñolofinwë’s eye, the skin there tinged the slightest of purples. “You dreamed of father again, didn’t you? Or was it-”

( _It had been almost enchanting in an eerie way, watching that silver hair sway in the water like seaweed.)_

Her brother took her hand. “It matters not. It was just a dream.”

Lalwendë thought of the dreams of Artanis and her brother, of fire and shadows and chains. “Dreams can be terrible things.”

“So can the waking world.” 

That was the truth of it, and how much Lalwendë wished it were not so could not be put into words.

“What of these new rumours?” Ñolofinwë eventually asked, coming to lean against the table as well. He sighed. “What else must we content amongst our own people?”

“They have begun speaking of Itarillë now,” his sister said grimly. “And the similarities she bears to our treacherous brother for both having lost their mothers as a member of Finwë’s House. You must get a hold of such falsehoods circulating through our people.”

Ñolofinwë brushed a hand across his face. “I can barely keep atop the rumours circulating about Maitimo. He has not even woken and already there is talk budding of how we should cast him out of the settlement or worse. They do not trust him as Fëanáro’s eldest son nor as the Enemy’s former captive.” He rubbed his face again. “We cannot control every thought our followers have.”

“Their thoughts are cruel,” Lalwendë said.

“Their thoughts are just thoughts,” Ñolofinwë replied, his hand dropping absently to his throat. “We are wiser now in knowing the damage that rumour can cause. I have no intention of letting them fester into something more dangerous than words.”

His sister sighed. “Be careful, brother. Words can be very dangerous indeed.”

“But I will not be alone in this.”

“No,” Lalwendë said with a small smile. “You will not.” She paused, thinking. “I can speak to Findaráto and his siblings about the rumours surrounding Itarillë at least. I suspect most of the talk comes from their own people.” It was a fair guess. Those who followed Turkáno or his kin would not be so likely to criticise the only daughter of one of their Lord Princes. “Perhaps a feast or gathering of sorts would help some see that your granddaughter is no threat and certainly no Fëanáro. If Findaráto and the others were seen interacting with her, with all of us, at a somewhat joyous occasion then we can further solidify the bonds between our two groups, uniting them better than if we let these rumours fester unchallenged.”

“You just want an excuse to drink our finer wine.”

“I want an excuse to let our family act like a family again,” Lalwendë replied, winding her arms around her brother and pressing her forehead against his. A grin split her face in two. “Though I would not be opposed to listening to one of your drunken tirades again about the tragedy of a poorly built storage system.”

Ñolofinwë pressed his lips into a line. “It can be a tragedy if done poorly. Disease can run rife via grain too easily spoilt and not detected fast enough, not to mention the risk of famine, rodents and miscalculations that lead to overindulgence and no seed to sow for the next season.”

“Do not forget the imperative nature of how the beams are carved and the frames look,” his sister laughed. “At least we know where Turkáno gets his fascination with architecture from, even if you don’t like to admit it when sober.”

“Lalwen,” but the elder of the two protested no further. As it was, the Noldor Prince was doing his uttermost best not to smile. “A feast is a good idea. We could all use some levity in these sorry times. Our harvest has been good, though I fear overindulgence, however joyful, would place too much strain on our stores.”

“A smaller celebration then,” said Lalwendë. “It need not be a feast. Dancing is always fun and it has been a while since I heard Findaráto sing with that honeyed voice of his. Or you, for that matter.”

“I do not think that my singing would be a necessary thing for this to succeed.”

“Come now,” grinned his sister. “There is no shame in having your songs sounding more like caterwauling than a celebration of life, Ñolo. No one is granted every gift and talent that exists.”

“Aye,” her brother grunted. “Your tact and diplomacy, for example, is severely lacking.”

“I get along just fine, thank you.”

“In any case,” her brother said with his own grin that immediately put Lalwendë on edge. “I feel there would be others willing enough to accompany our nephew in his songs of love and life and ecstasy.”

“You had best not be encouraging Varyar, brother. I have no qualms with regaling your most embarrassing childhood stories to your most devout of followers.”

“He is a fine elf.”

“And I am fine as a maiden.” Lalwendë flipped her hair. “If there is nothing else you wish to discuss seriously, I may as well take my leave. I am sure Hauranis will be much more help in organising this celebration of ours, feast or not, nor will she question my desire to remain unwed.”

Ñolofinwë had the gall to laugh. “Hauranis is as romantic as me, dear sister.”

“Tell that to the many suitors she has threatened to throw out her door, lute and all.” 

“It was only one and that was an Age ago.” In happier times and more peaceful pursuits. It all seemed an Age away.

Nevertheless, Lalwendë still rolled her eyes. “Believe what you will, brother. I will take my leave.”

“Take it then.” Ñolofinwë waved an exaggerated arm at her before turning back to the maps he was examining. For a moment only elven footsteps pushed the boundary of sound, then came muttered: “And my singing does not sound like caterwauling.”

Lalwendë just laughed.

Hauranis, it turned out, was happy enough to leave Lalwendë alone about the unwanted romance in her life. Instead the tall elleth busied herself with planning the dance that her Lord and Lady had requested. Írissë was sent with invitations for Findaráto’s lot and Artanis accompanied her in all her proud glory, both putting aside their complaints when Hauranis had driven a tent pole into the ground with her hands. Lalwendë flitted around between her other duties, drawing in Itarillë to help with the decorations, hoping that the youth’s artistic eye would earn her some praise to counteract the other whisperings about her. A menu was devised for the food to be served, modest but appropriate for such an affair. Ñolofinwë would announce the event the next morning to those invites would be sent to.

Her brother kept to himself for much of the rest of the day, only making a few short treks here and there to their house and the aviary, to several Lords and Ladies and the masters of several guilds. Dusk was falling in its subtle manner when Lord Ñolofinwë at last retreated in full to his own rooms, not to be seen again until the morning.

Lalwendë was still found about the settlement even as the sun grew lower like a flame atop a candle wick. Only once did she return to the house where her brother brooded, a frown still marking her face from after a lengthy internal debate known only to her. When next she was sighted by someone other than her kin, it was running to add a small note for the bird whose course was set for her half-brother’s settlement in the morning. Her heart clenched in anxiety as she walked away worried about what she had written and if the request would be answered.

 _There is little else I can do,_ she told herself and tried to believe it. The hot flames of rage sought to stoke her worries further still, but it grew cold as she retreated to the walls once more as the stars took their place in the sky.

Finwë’s youngest daughter turned her face up to their dim silver light, marvelling at their splendour in the black fields of night. It was calming in a way little else was, a breath of free air from outside the constrains of her new duties. _Ai! For freedom,_ Lalwendë thought, _For the ­love of the freedom that had been known where the waters of Cuiviénen ran sweet beneath the stars and reflected back their majestic light._

For so long she had dwelt inside Tirion, journeying when it was permitted, appearing by her mother’s side as her only unwed child. Alone on the wall north of Mithrim the stuffy politics and restricting responsibilities seemed distant, instead a horizon spread before her longing to be explored and promising what life as a Noldor Lady and Princess could never give to her. The elf wished to fly into it, to spread her arms and leap into the shackleless fate ahead.

Yet, as she stood there the wind grew cold. Above a star took on a reddish hue and Lalwendë was assailed by guilt, loud and quaking though it was known only to her. Again and again the elleth remembered what she had thought when Teleri were dying and the betrayed Noldor’s faces had turned towards the Grinding Ice, what she was thinking even now when her brother was relying on her to help get them through all to come and their waiting Doom: even soaked in blood and slush-like snow the breath of freedom had been good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the updates take so long. Life is a bit of a mess at the moment (getting there though) and these chapters take a while to write. Getting Galadriel/Artanis right took a while too and not sure if I hit the nail on there head there. Ah well. Please leave a comment - would love to know the thoughts of anyone who is reading this (if anyone is still reading it).


	7. Chapter 7

He remembered dancing with Anairë, how his large hands cupped her smaller ones. How their heads had bent at awkward angles to rectify their difference in height that each might lean against the shoulder of the other as the music wound itself around them. Her breath had been his breath in those moments, her movements his. It was in this way that the fëar of bonded elves merged as they were supposed to merge in matrimony, a complete and utter entwining of themselves so that one essence could scarce be told from the other-

Ñolofinwë danced with no one now.

Before him the memory of his distant wife faded to the present where his followers twirled in a sort of grim, ecstatic pleasure. Lalwendë had outdone herself considering they had little to produce such an extravagant affair, yet extravagant it was, a celebration for one reason or another that allowed their people an excuse to smile again with nothing but cheer. Findaráto sung with his bell-like voice of pointless, happy things that bore not so strongly the grief of memory. His sister joined him as did several others who were skilled in the art of music. Someone had taken up a harp and a fiddle, traded for with the Sindar who settled somewhere amongst the forest nearby. Itarillë led the dancing with her father and it was a bittersweet sight indeed.

But the echo of Anairë was enough for the second son of Finwë to deal with.

He took another gulp of wine, another thing traded for with the Sindar. Valar knew that his people would not trade with Fëanáro – a problem he would have to resolve sooner or later. His brother had resources they could use, though to get them might require conditions that would disadvantage them yet again (Ñolofinwë had learned: never would he let his brother go first, to take before he had received an absolute guarantee of his own rightful needs in return). That said, the receiving of much needed medical supplies were an ensured thing with Fëanáro’s eldest son and heir, with Ñolofinwë’s nephew still in a wakeless slumber. More than a week had passed. More time than it had taken other elves to fade upon the Ice. The healers sung above him almost every night, bathed his wounds in the most potent herbal concoctions ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­they could and, for those whose grudges were alleviated in the face of suffering and still held faith, prayed that the Valar might grant the poor elf some reprieve. It seemed futile. Whatever they did, still Maitimo would not-

“I thought this was supposed to be an occasion to take our minds off our troubles.”

Lalwendë’s voice appeared as she did behind her brother, two slim hands coming to rest of his tight shoulders. Her fingers kneaded the muscles there and Ñolofinwë fought to keep from wincing. The art of massage was not one his sister had ever been well skilled in. Nonetheless, he appreciated her efforts.

 _I rather thought it was more to do with the ending of those vile rumours about my granddaughter,_  he thought through osanwë.

_It is the same difference, is it not?_

_Perhaps._  The elf Lord observed his people, watching as someone asked graciously for Itarillë’s hand to dance. Iríssë herself had asked Turkáno to dance, both to shirk the commonality of tradition and to likely take her brother’s mind off his missing (dead where yellow flowers marked a place) wife. Findekáno danced with a pretty thing, though if one looked past his charming face they would see his heart was not in it. No doubt worried about his cousin.

_He will wake, brother._

Ñolofinwë stifled a grimace.  _He must if we are to maintain any civility with Fëanáro._

He did not hear Lalwendë’s next thoughts, but he did not need to. They had had the same conversation too often over the past days. As the evening came to settle, he wished to think of something else.

“Are you enjoying yourself, at least?” he asked out loud.

His sister tipped her head back and smiled, thinking of some fond memory only recently passed. “It is…acceptable.”

“You sound like our old lore teacher.” Perhaps it was the wine, yet he could not help but continue with an imitation: “Yes, child. That you have perfectly recited all sixty verses of the obscure poem I sent you to memorise the day before mildly pleases me.”

“Indeed, one should think you were finally learning something,” Lalwendë continued in her own poorer impression. Then she laughed. “Well done, brother. I would say you are better at playing that dry old stick better than me.”

“I simply have had more years to master it.”

“Not too many more,” his sister replied. A wistful look fell upon her face. “Do you not wish that we could return to such a time? How easy we had it then…”

Ñolofinwë tapped her hand. “Now look who is being morose.”

The other harrumphed then flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I would not be so morose if you were to dance with me,” she said, though an ache lingered in her eyes. “Come, just one song, brother-mine.”

Said brother released a sigh. “Not this night, Lalwen.”

“That is not an appropriate answer when a lady asks for a dance.”

“One could argue that it is not appropriate for a lady to ask.”

“But never you, brother,” Lalwendë said. She discretely tugged at his hair. “Come on. Up with those lazing bones of yours.”

Now Ñolofinwë turned to look meet her gaze. “You are surprisingly insistent,” he said at last after a moment’s musing. “Do tell what this is truly about.”

“I was concerned for you.”

“And?”

“And what?” she said, a tad too indignantly.

Ñolofinwë raised an eyebrow. His sister sighed.

“If I dance with you, I shall avoid the clutches of Varyar,” she finally said, her voice tight – though whether it was with embarrassment or annoyance was hard to tell. Likewise, it was hard to tell if this was the only reason she had kept hidden, but it was easy enough to accept and Ñolofinwë had borne more than his share of woe that night. Perhaps it was time for him to join some merrymaking.

“His intentions are only well-meaning.”

“But I’ve no need of such intentions,” his sister replied. She smiled, a strange sort of glint in her eyes. “My future here does not include being bound so quickly. At least not yet.”

“Love-” Was not such a bond. Yet, Ñolofinwë could feel that ache inside of him acutely though he had grown used to its gnawing over the long years on the Helcaraxë. He wondered if Aniarë could feel it too.

Lalwendë watched him, her face adopting a blankness. “She turned her back on you, brother.”

“And you have never been in such love,” he answered in a clipped manner. “Shall we dance?”

Neither really wanting to argue – and neither really able to with the eyes of all their people upon them – brother and sister pulled close and began to step in time with the music. The tempo had increased as the song neared its climax and as the pair twirled about, the other dancers, led by Findekáno, stood back to allow them the entirety of the dancefloor.

Back and forth Ñolofinwë and Lalwendë went, dashing first one way then the other on feet as light and graceful as free-falling leaves upon the wind. Their steps grew larger, the grip they had on each other nearly threatening to break. Their spins grew faster. Their leaps grew higher. Their pivot and twists more violent, though never losing that elven grace. When the music slowed, they slowed. When the music reached its crescendo, they themselves seemed nearly airborne for their feet barely touched the ground.

Almost,  _almost_  Ñolofinwë lost himself to the dance. He blinked and what had been Lalwendë’s flustered face a moment ago became another dainty face he knew framed by dark hair. The rough fabric of their clothes flapped about them, and the blue-grey of that dress seemed nearly the same colour as the dress beside him on his wedding day. A tug of his hands and she would fall upon his chest and-

Aniarë was not there. She had not come (did not know her youngest-).

If the elven Lord and Prince faltered, it went unseen as the song crashed to its ending and brother and sister finally broke apart. He gave a long bow to Lalwendë’s curtsey amidst the applause. Ñolofinwë extended his arms to the musicians, to his nephew among them who took their own bows before starting up again as the other elves drifted onto the dancefloor once more. Their Lord and Lady, in turn, retired back the main table.

“You cannot tell me that was not fun,” Lalwendë laughed.

Ñolofinwë conceded with a small smile. “You are as excellent a dancer as ever.”

“You too, brother. The memory of all those extra lessons father made you take seems to have remained.” A teasing thought, yet quickly taken by the winds of sorrow for the memory of one who was no longer there.

“Walk with me,” Ñolofinwë said in the space between their shared grief, offering his arm to his sister.

She shook her head. “We cannot. You, at least, must remain until the festivities end.”

Damned were the necessities of duty. “After then.”

“Aye, after.”

After could not come soon enough, but the present soon brought the cheery face of Itarillë to them, all aglow with simple excitement.

“Grandfather!” she gushed as she threw her arms around his waist. Behind her, Ambaráto nodded his golden head in greeting, smiling at the enthusiasm of his latest dance partner.

 “You have been enjoying yourself, I see,” Ñolofinwë remarked, ruffling the child’s own golden hair.

“I have and so has father,” Itarillë giggled. “He drank a lot of wine.”

“Aye, Turkáno is a little bit drunk,” Ambaráto added. Ñolofinwë only hoped that drunkenness was from merriment and not the loneliness of bereavement.

“And how fare your siblings?” the Lord asked his nephew. “I have not seen Angaráto or Artanis for a while now, nor the youngest of you, Artaresto.”

“Artaresto is stargazing with our sister,” Ambaráto replied. “As for my other wayward brother, I know not where he went to after he left me in the delightful company of our niece here.”

“I am sure he will turn up somewhere,” Lalwendë said.

“He will,” the younger elf replied, “Even if I have to hunt him down myself.”

“I am sure he will be quaking in his boots,” Lalwendë grinned. “Come, let us not think of wayward kin and instead dance, for I know my dear brother will refuse to rise to the occasion once again now he is settled back in his chair.” She threw a look towards Ñolofinwë who waved his hand carelessly as though shooing a fly.

Ambaráto grinned himself, before turning to Itarillë and bowing low. “If you would grant me leave from your side, my Lady.”

“I grant you leave,” Itarillë said before pulling herself into the seat next to Ñolofinwë. She watched as her former dance partner took her aunt’s arm and guided them both back to the dancefloor. Then she asked, “Do you not like dancing, grandfather?”

“I do,” Ñolofinwë replied. “I just do not feel like dancing much this evening.”

“Is it because you are sad like father?” his granddaughter said. Her blue eyes were wide and ever insightful.

 _Turkáno drinks from grief, then,_ came the half-ignored thought as Ñolofinwë sought a reply. “I am not as merry as I could be,” he finally conceded, careful with his words. “Though I prefer to watch the dancing in any case for I was not always so good, and still am not given enough weariness and absentmindedness. This your aunt would gladly account for.”

Itarillë hummed, swinging her legs to the music before she remembered to still them as a proper lady’s should be stilled. “Why do you like watching the dancing?”

“For the same reason why Artanis likes watching the stars. It is peaceful and allows me to glimpse the finer notes in Ilúvatar’s Song.”

“How?”

“Watch them,” Ñolofinwë answered, gesturing to where Lalwendë and Ambaráto spun, to where a dozen other pairs twisted and twirled and swayed at the music’s whim. “Do you see the harmony between each pair of dancers? The way the movements of two become a single one?” The way they merged as the wedded did and- “It is in such movement, in such a moment that I can see how the world is truly made as one with all separate parts simply parts of whole that interact like dancers do to complete Ilúvatar’s Song.”

Itarillë nodded then bit her lip. “If all separate parts make up the whole, does that include the shadows and dark and…?” She did not speak the name, though the name did not need speaking.

“The Song was marred in its singing by one who thought to undo and outdo what Ilúvatar wished,” Ñolofinwë said grimly. “But these mistaken notes we need not focus on and we can resist as easily as a dancer can resist a mistimed beat by a musician. The song continues, and so does the Song we are all dancers to, despite those who seek to mar it.”

“Oh.” Her legs were swinging again.

Beyond the space around grandfather and granddaughter a commotion had broken out as Findaráto left his place with the musicians and went to steal his aunt’s hand from his brother. It was a political move as much as it was a familial one, an indirect showcasing of support from Arafinwë’s House, which Findaráto led, to Ñolofinwë’s own. Lalwendë accepted the change with grace and what seemed to be the final dance began as the other dancers trickled off to the edges.

Ñolofinwë glanced at the child beside him, a thought emerging in his head. The festivities, after all, had been thrown partly for her.

“Would you care for another dance?” he asked, standing.

Itarillë stared up at him for a moment, her blue eyes wide before a smile split her face in two. “Of course, grandfather! Thank you for your offer.” She curtseyed to him, before accepting his larger hand and allowing herself to be led back to the dancefloor.

The elder had to stoop a bit to cover the distance between them both, a distance that was ever growing smaller. They took up position beside Lalwendë and Findaráto, and when the next bar of music started, they began.

This dance was not so involved as the one with his sister, but it was elegant and contained and filled with the grace of royalty drawing to a close the festivities of the night. Once the main part of the song was played, the other pair drifted to the side and allowed Ñolofinwë and Itarillë the final stage. When they too were done, they curtseyed and bowed as appropriate among their people’s applause. Ñolofinwë motioned for his granddaughter to take her place by her father’s side, before straightening his back and taking in breath to address those gathered.

“We have travelled a long and hard path,” he began, “Darkness and treachery has plagued us. Yet here we stand, alive and hale, a message of strength to those who would doubt us from across this lake to the smog-filled of Angamando itself!” When the cheering died, he continued, “Honoured I have been to know and walk alongside each and every one of you. I have known no people more determined, more steadfast, kinder and more loyal than those here before me who did not shy away from the frigid bite of the Helcaraxë and the fiends that laid beyond it.

“I am not so self-absorbed to think that you made that crossing for me alone. If my father can see from the halls our fëar are bound to upon death, he would be proud of what you, his people, have accomplished in the face of the greatest hardships we have ever known. I will not lie and say that it does not hurt that he is not here with us,” Ñolofinwë said thickly. “I will not lie and say that it does not hurt that all those we have lost are not here with us. The ghost of that sorrow we shall ever carry in our hearts, though it will grow less hurtful and softer as time passes and the trauma of those memories fade. Yet, the memories themselves we shall always hold dear, always hold to drive us until we meet those within them again in the halls or at this world’s unmaking. They will not be forgotten, and we shall not forget. Yet, we should not allow our grief to consume us. There is time enough for sorrow and it is a natural thing to feel when tragedy rears its head to strike us, but, as tonight has proven, there is still space for merrymaking in our lives. There is still space to rise above the misery the Dark Foe would see us break under. Let our resistance not be one of just steel and blood, but one too of song and laughter and joy beneath the shadows he would cast around the world. Let him and his quake not just at our strength, but also at our indomitable spirit. For we are indomitable!”

The others roared in fervour, several stomping their feet and banging their chests.

“We have crossed the Helcaraxë when all others said we could not!” Ñolofinwë called.

There was more roaring, several whooping cries.

“We have stormed the gates of Angamando themselves and left the Dark Foe’s armies trembling behind their walls!”

Perhaps that challenge had ultimately ended in a loss, in them leaving with their challenge unmet, but to those present at the gathering in the now the act of challenging the Enemy was enough to celebrate.  

“We have done what others could not do in their cowardness and arrogance, and it shall be us who are remembered as the most valiant of the Noldor!” But then Ñolofinwë’s face grew serious. “The path ahead will be no easier than the one we have heretofore taken. Likely it will be harder for now it is our task to meet the greatest foe in this world face-to-face. We have seen what his hand can bring when he destroyed the Trees and cast us into darkness, slaying my father and your King simultaneously with one foul blow. We have seen his cruelty that marks the hapless lucky to escape from his slaving halls. We have seen the extent of this upon my own eldest nephew.” As the others murmured, Ñolofinwë called above them, “I know many of you hold no warmth for Fëanáro or his sons, but none can deny the cruelty of what was wrought upon the un-waking Maitimo and none can hide what it tells of the Dark Foe’s true nature. It is no easy fight we find ourselves in. It is no easy task we have come to do. Yet, I have faith that each and every one of you will see this task through to its end.”

“And we have faith that you will lead us,” a voice called from the depths of the crowd. There was the noise of general assent and Ñolofinwë smiled graciously at it.

“I thank you for your confidence in me,” he said.

“We thank you for what you have done for us,” Lord Naham spoke from towards the front, “For forging the way through the Grinding Ice was no easy task either.”

There was more assent, louder this time. Again, Ñolofinwë gave his thanks. Then he raised his hands and offered a dismissal to those present, officially drawing the impromptu celebration to an end. The gathering parted ways as he left and Lalwendë made her way to his side.

“You wished to speak alone,” she said. “Do you still have that wish now?”

Her brother tweaked his lips. “Aye, I do.”

He offered his arm to the elleth and she took it gracefully. It was only after they had walked for a while, towards their current home and away from prying ears that they began to speak again.

“The celebration was a success,” Lalwendë commented. “More eyes are looking kindlier upon Itarillë now. To think she is anything like Fëanáro-”

“Similar circumstances drive poorly reasoned thoughts,” Ñolofinwë said. He rubbed his neck absently. “Fear and hatred of another can also easily be brought to bear against an innocent.”

“Many were not happy with the reminder of our nephew being amidst us.”

“It did good to remind them,” Ñolofinwë countered. “As I said, Maitimo represents what the Dark Foe may do to us all if he were given the chance. It is as good a motivator as any to keep those who follow us joined together against a common cause that would not rip the Noldor further in two.”

Lalwendë huffed, perhaps a touch of displeasure to the sound. “So you used him for a political argument then?”

“In part,” her brother conceded. He sighed. “Politics is not always pretty, and sometimes we must use what we can when our very society is threatening to tear itself apart, but,” he added, “It was not solely for political reasoning. I thought it would do good to remind them of Maitimo’s unfortunate state as well, of who placed him there, so that the sympathy of our people could turn more easily towards him despite the sins of his father and brothers.”

“If you were to state that he had no role in the burning-”

“Would they believe me?” The elder elf shook his head. “No, the time is still not right. When he wakes, then perhaps.”

“And if he does not wake?” Lalwendë asked.

 Ñolofinwë kept his gaze straight ahead. “The Sindar have made many a hero upon their death.”

“So at least he will not be remembered a traitor in death, is that it?” his sister spat bitterly. “What have we come to when those who have no betrayal in their hearts are lauded as the worst among us?”

“He was at Alqualondë, Lalwen.”

“So were we all and he followed his father and King, as did we all.”

“You do not blame him for that?”

Lalwendë did not smile and it was a terrible thing indeed. “I blame Curufinwë Fëanáro.”

That, at least, they were in agreement with.

_“I did not tell them to draw their swords.”_

Ñolofinwë cast aside the voice echoing in his head, instead turning his thoughts back to Anairë, to his father. A familiar ache gripped his chest and his steps faltered.

“I miss him too,” Lalwendë said quietly. "Do you think he-” She did not finish the thought. There was no need to ponder on what Finwë would have thought of the death that had brought them thus far.

“I pray that he would understand now from where he no doubt watches, and that he would forgive us for our missteps along the way,” Ñolofinwë said. Their father had always been kind and merciful. There was no reason to doubt he would not be so in this as well (or so his second son hoped).

“He never yelled whenever I stepped on his feet whilst learning to dance,” Lalwendë said, though foot stepping and slaying elves were two entirely different things.

Nevertheless, Ñolofinwë nodded his head. “Aye. He was ever patient with our mistakes.”

So they deluded themselves even while they imagined a pair of brilliant, disappointed blue eyes directed towards them.

Neither talked much after that, aside from snippets that quickly dwindled to silence once again. Ñolofinwë had wanted to talk of his absent wife, for the dancing had brought her to the forefront of his mind, but the few mentions he had made of her name had been greeted by outright hostility from Lalwendë.

“Think not of her,” she had said. “No true mother abandons their children willingly.”

It would have been easier if the elleth had left a lover of her own behind. If wise Nerdanel had not remained behind as well, lending more weight to the counter argument against the now Exiled Noldor than she no doubt had intended.

_(“What of Nerdanel, brother? Does she lag behind?” he had asked when first they had met after the battle at Alqualondë._

_Fëanáro had not said anything, yet his expression was one Ñolofinw_ _ë knew well enough on his own._

_“We shall prove them wrong, then,” the younger had said, and in saying so, tried not to think on the condemnation they had from one lauded as wise.)_

Thus, the rest of the walk passed in near silence and the house, when it rose from the horizon to greet them, was a welcome sight indeed.

Brother and sister entered the house, exhausted from the festivities and the darkness of their own thoughts. They were not the only ones either. Iríssë had not yet returned and Findekáno was nowhere in sight, but Itarillë’s door was closed indicating that she had retired for the night to elven sleep. There were also spent voices in the inner lounge, Findaráto tiredly cajoling his favoured cousin to the balm of rest.

“It will hurt less in the morning,” came his bell-like tones. “I promise it.”

“What use are such promises now?” was the mournful reply. “They will not bring her back.”

“Turko…”

Around the edge of the doorframe Ñolofinwë peered and the golden head of Findaráto lifted only slightly from the slumped figure before him as he caught sight of his uncle and aunt. The eldest of them murmured softly to his sister, biding her a goodnight and away from what he as a father was faced with. Findaráto too took his leave, rising to his feet and brushing past Ñolofinwë.

“He-” Those blue eyes communicated what words could not.

Ñolofinwë nodded. Used osanwë to reply.  _I know. Thank you._

Then he was left alone with his broken-hearted son.

“Turkáno,” he said, drawing his courage around him and stepping into the room. “How do you fare, my son?”

Perhaps it was the drink that made Turkáno’s tongue looser for his father had not excepted as open an answer as came next: “I feel as though the winds of snow were still blowing through my heart, shrinking it to a horrible, aching thing.”

Ñolofinwë sighed. “Your grief consumes you, Turkáno.”

“Yet I cannot see another way to feel.” The younger elf raised his head from the table it had been laying on. His eyes were as they had been that fateful day on the Ice, though the anguish in them was dulled.

“It is no easy thing to lose a spouse,” his father said. “I know it will shadow your heart from here until the time when you are fated to meet again, for such a thing shadowed the heart of your grandfather all the time that I knew him. Yet, he survived it.  _You_  will survive it.”

“I do not see how.”

“And I see a father who went on through many a blizzard when he saw the tears frozen on his daughter’s face.” Ñolofinwë sat in the chair beside his son, his expression stern though kind. “You doubted before and proved yourself wrong. You did so for Itarillë. If you doubt your ability to go on now, then I bid you to stand and peer inside her room, look upon her countenance as she dreams and know that feeling all parents know in that they would go to the ends of the world for their children.”

Turkáno frowned. “Itarillë…”

“Aye, she sleeps in the room just beyond us. I believe you saw to her before coming here.”

The younger elf nodded, seeming to pull himself together a little before his will vanished and he slumped against the table once more. Lines of anguish ghosted across his face, his frown furrowing into the curves of sorrow upon his forehead. “The memories seem stronger now,” he said, “Stronger than they have been for a while.” Silence. Then, “I do not want to forget her.”

Did Ñolofinwë fear forgetting Anairë’s face? (But  _she_ had chosen not to come.)

“You will not,” the father reassured his widowed son. “The memories of elves are long, and we do not forget the faces of those who loved us dearly. Finwë never forgot Míriel’s face nor her voice nor the little idiosyncrasies she had that no picture can capture, and you are of Finwë’s get.” His son hummed and Ñolofinwë pressed on in his advice. “Why don’t you list something you remember of Elenwë now? Then you will see that you need not fear the capabilities of your own mind.”

(What did  _he_ remember of Anairë? That she was fair of skin and heart, quick to laugh at his wit but not the more foolish endeavours of their children. That they had met at a dance.

That she had left. Turned her back on him, though without the need for flames.

Was it worth remembering such pain?)

“I remembered when we first danced, Elenwë and I,” came Turkáno’s slurring voice at last. He was drunker than he had originally appeared or else the weight of the alcohol was only now fully settling over him when his defences had been crushed. “When Artanis joined Finno on the dancefloor, I remembered how sweet she had been over my bumbling feet which trod on hers too many times to count.” He laughed, a short and hollow bark still filled with fondness for times since passed. “I counted them anyway and gave her sixteen bluebells the next day. They were her favourite flower…”

Ñolofinwë remembered that there had always been bluebells in Turkáno’s house when Elenwë was there, usually gracing the top of someone’s head. It had been a simple thing, yet a sure mark of a happy household. A household broken too soon by darkness and arrogance and pride. Was this their Doom or simple folly and bad luck?

 _No matter,_ Ñolofinwë thought in a voice that seemed like a wiser elleth he had known.  _It is done now and the consequences we must face._

If only those consequences did not include the broken heart of his son.

“I remember she was wearing a bluebell at that dance, tucked right behind her ear,” Turkáno was saying. “It fell out before the ending and we could not find it again for all the feet that must have trampled it to nothing. She laughed at my apologies, then said a prayer for the flower’s soul that it would find peace in whatever afterlife plants have. I still don’t know if she was teasing me in doing so.” He paused, blinked away the tears that had suddenly welled up in his eyes. “Elenwë was so…content. Happy, I suppose, and content to see the better side of life. Now I feel as though that glow she bathed everything in is gone and shall never be again. I feel as though there is a coldness beside me that did not come from the Helcaraxë’s snow or ice, though they played their role in making it.”

“Your grandmother once commented that Finwë felt much the same sometimes, like there was a void he could not fill in the absence of Míriel, some way the world had turned wrong and could not be turned back to its original state. Yet, still he went on and the feeling faded with time.” Or so Indis had said.

“But grandfather found someone else to wed,” Turkáno said. “I do not think that I can. I do not think I want to, would not want Elenwë to think our love was so fickle and replaceable.”  Then, after a pause that had Ñolofinwë wondering at his father’s choices, the younger elf continued. “Yet, I do not think I can stand being alone.”

“You will not be alone,” Ñolofinwë answered. “You have your daughter and, though we are not your wife, your aunt and brother and sister and me. You have your cousins and friends here who would all aid you and grant you comfort should you ask for it. As I have told you before-” Upon the Ice when the grief was fresh. “You need not go on alone, even if you take no other lover as your grandfather did.”

They were the best words he could have offered, the best words he still had to offer to this broken-hearted son of his who knew the pain of love too acutely. Elenwë had been sweet and lovely, impossible to dislike even for those who seemed to make it their business to hate all blonde haired elleths in Finwë’s House. A breath of fresh air she had been to a family not always as peaceful as others.

“I miss her,” Turkáno said, his words abruptly ending in a sob.  

His father sighed, another wife on his mind. “I know.”

Ñolofinwë brushed a hand through his son’s hair, resting it there and using his thumb to stroke the back of Turkáno’s weeping head. They remained as such for a time, silence hanging between them as it hung above a funeral where words found little place amidst the pain. When enough time had passed, the elder drew away.

“You should seek a more comfortable place so that better dreams might yet find you and help make a balm to ease the pain in your heart while the ill effects of alcohol wear off,” he said. “Perhaps the presence of your daughter will help ease your loneliness too.”

Turkáno nodded absently, drying his eyes as he made to rise. “What will you do?”

“I shall relieve the elf keeping vigil at your cousin’s side,” Ñolofinwë answered plainly. The elf was not tired and found himself needing something to chase unwanted memories away. There was no better way to do so than to gaze upon the ruined face of Maitimo and impart what power he could spare for the sake of healing the hapless elf. “Rest son. It is as Findaráto said; things will be better in the morning.”

Ñolofinwë left his son and went to the only door in the house that remained closed more often than not. Through it he went, greeted by the stench of burning herbs and incense. The scent of lavender was particularly strong, and the elf screwed his nose up against it.

His gaze was immediately drawn to the bed. Maitimo’s eyes were still closed.

“He has not stirred,” came the weary voice of Ewinadur. “I hope the festivities fared better.”

“Aye, there was much joy and merrymaking to be had amongst our people,” Ñolofinwë answered absently. “Though Varyar missed the chance to dance with my sister.”

“I am sure she despairs over such a thing,” the healer replied wryly.

“Indeed, she insisted upon it.”

Silence fell between them as they watched the unconscious elf. His once fair face was still horrifically gaunt and flushed with fever.

“Has there been no chance at all?” Ñolofinwë found himself asking desperately. Ewinadur shook his head. “What am I to tell his father then? Already he demands to know why his son’s waking takes so long.”

“I cannot help you there,” the older elf replied. “Save to provide my own opinions to prove what words you write. Maitimo will wake when his fëa and hröa have regained enough strength, or he will not wake at all. This fever is incessant and will not release its hold on him for more than a few hours.”

“That is not news I want to hear,” Ñolofinwë cried. “Does anything help?”

“The athelas helps. Our supplies run low, however, and it is pertinent that we receive more soon.”

Ñolofinwë nodded quickly. “Of course. I will send scouts out to gather some at dawn. I will gather it myself if I must.”

“He will need more than athelas to heal in full.” Ewinadur at least looked apologetic for casting a shadow over his Lord’s hope. “We still sing to strengthen his fëa and the help Artanis gives here is invaluable. Yet, I fear it will not be enough. I fear none of this will be enough. Maitimo has suffered much, perhaps too much for any one elf to endure.” He paused. “Know I do not say this lightly, but it could be kinder to let him pass, to grant his father and brothers one last chance to farewell him, rather them forcing him to go on unnaturally for fear of war. We must ask ourselves if sacrificing the wellbeing of one is worth the supposed common good.”

“I do not wish for him to live for the sake of avoiding war,” Ñolofinwë said. “He is my kin and I would see him live that I might not lose more whom I love to that Fiend. Is his case truly so hopeless?”

Ewinadur was silent for a moment, thinking over the best answer to give. “It would be wise,” he said at last, each word slow and deliberate, “To inform Fëanáro that fate may yet take his eldest too. Offer what you must to appease him, so long as it is within reason. Should Maitimo pull through, then no harm can be done in this. Yet-”

It would not be unwise to plan for the more likely outcome. The soundness of that reasoning hurt Ñolofinwë deeply.

“Very well,” he sighed and sank into the other seat in the room. “If you could fetch me paper and ink before you take your leave, I shall begin on such a letter. And Ewinadur,” he added as the other neared the door, his blue eyes caught once more on the slack face of his nephew. “Do your best to ensure he lives before you give him up to Nämo for good. Please.”

“I will, my Lord,” came the loyal reply.

Ñolofinwë bit his lip. It would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, children of your cousin are your first cousin once removed, but commonly called niece/nephew. I’ve followed this tradition here with Idril. I’ve also gone with Orodreth as Finarfin’s son, as I believe that is the latest version of his parentage and it is the version in the Silmarillion. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who have stuck with this story. Life up until now has not let me catch a break so I haven’t had the chance to write at all until now. Anyway, hopefully I’ll get a few updates out of the way plus some extra writing to build up a stockpile of updates for after the next few months. I intend to finish this, though it might take me a year or two (or a hundred at this rate…) Anyway, please leave a comment if you feel inclined to. I love receiving them.


	8. Chapter 8

Dawn had just begun and the settlement on the South side of Lake Mithrim was barely stirring out of the strange dreams all elves did have, barely indicating the bustle of life beyond the ever-working forges and patrolling guard. Indeed, the world itself was mostly quiet save in the main room of their leader’s house.

“This is not the way to deal with such news.”

“They lie, brother. Can you not see that?”

“I can see anger and grief blinding you as it has blinded many a warrior who then went to their deaths. As it blinded Nelyo.”

“Don’t bring him into this,” two said at once.  

Then another, his voice still hoarse from a night spent in the forges, “Why not? He is the cause of it, after all.”

“So you would lay the blame on him then?” spat yet another, face flushing red in anger. “You would make our brother take the blame when he is more a victim on all sides of this than any other here, betrayed by our traitorous kin, betrayed by the Dark Foe, betrayed by us-”

“ _We did not abandon him_ -”

“But it was not us who did the rescuing,” Turcafinwë laughed darkly.

And above them all, a voice more resolute than the rest: “This changes nothing. We go to war.”

“No!” Kánafinwë’s voice rang out, golden and powerful, and if he were anyone else Fëanáro would have had him arrested for daring to use such power on his King. The younger continued as silence fell across the room, “To pick a fight with Ñolofinwë would do more harm than good and play right into the hands of the Valar’s Doom upon us. They are not our enemy and they mean Nelyo no harm. Ewinadur himself cares for our brother, your son, and when have you ever doubted the loyalty of one whom grandfather himself held in the highest of esteem?”

Fëanáro’s face was set in a scowl, his hands leaning upon the table he loomed over. “Ewinadur has made his true allegiances known and they lie with that half-kin traitor.”

Around the same table his sons either nodded in agreement or wore doubt clear upon their faces. The rare mention of Finwë, though fleeting, had shaken almost all in some minor way. Even those who had been baying for blood had quietened their frenzy.

“A healer’s oath transcends such feuding lines, though,” Pitayfinwë pointed out. “At least for the most invested in their work and Ewinadur was always invested. I remember that about him well.”

“Besides, whether or not he lies, they still have Nelyo in a position that can easily turned to him being a hostage,” Telufinwë said. “If we were to attack, who is to say they would not use him against us? Force our hand in other matters like that of the crown? Or they may outright kill him if they were cornered so as a sort of pre-emptive revenge. Can we endanger his life so? Can we endanger the lives of our already depleted people if our efforts prove futile?”  

Turcafinwë roared. “We cannot just leave our brother in the hands of those who are so willing to let him die!”

“But surely there is time-”

“You are a fool to think so,” Fëanáro said, a fey glint in his eye. “By their own hand they have given away their desire to do away with Nelyafinwë soon.”

“Have they?” Kánafinwë’s voice was cynical. “What you read to us indicates nothing of the sort. They merely state his illness consumes him and, in all likelihood-” The great minstrel choked. “In all likelihood, his time of death nears. We need to negotiate with Ñolofinwë, father, so Nelyo does not die needlessly apart from us.”

“I will not negotiate with one who keeps my son from me, who _lies_ about his condition.”

“What does he lie about?” Kánafinwë cried. “You saw Nelyo. Is it so far outside the realm of possibility that he cannot survive what has been done to him?”

The crushing void inside of Fëanáro that seemed lined with glass shards and hopelessness could not deny this. It could not. Yet, he refused to accept it. His eldest could not die yet (not be taken by the-). Even so, the elf did not meet his second son’s sharp gaze.

“Nelyo does not deserve to spend his last days languishing alone in an atmosphere with so much turmoil and hostility,” the minstrel said. “Not after what he has been through.”

“You speak as though he is already dead,” Curufinwë said.

Kánafinwë closed his eyes, clutching at the locket around his neck. “Ewinadur would not lie.”

“And if he were forced to?” The young smith shook his head. “Do we go to war or not?”

“It would be an unwise course of action,” Morfinwë said, raising his head once more from the journals he had brought with him and even now was making notes in. “We do not have the forces to combat them effectively. Ñolofinwë’s troops number more than ours, and though ours are better equipped such an advantage will not hold for long against such odds. If we were victorious, then the troops we had left would quickly fall to Morringotto’s forces.”

“They want war no more than we do,” Kánafinwë added. “They themselves are weary and too came here not to fight us, but Morringotto. Bauglir I have heard him called, ‘the Constrainer’, and how adequate is the name for one who constrained our brother, who would constrain us to chaos and death by inspiring doubt and darkness in all our hearts? Would you so readily draw your sword against our only female kindred on this side of the sea? Against little Itarillë? Against Findekáno who was valiant enough to recuse Nelyo from the clutches of our greatest enemy?”

“An elf is no less able to be treacherous for being of the more feminine persuasion,” Fëanáro sneered, though his thoughts of Itarillë were not so bitter or fuelled by rage. Indeed, they seemed a breath of air in the murky fury and fear clouding his head. The elf shook his head, stoking instead that incised fire inside of himself. (Being stoked by faceless whispers that seemed to see everything so much more clearly…) “And your brother’s rescue could easily have been a fabricated front to place us and him in a more vulnerable position, beholden to the wishes of ill-meaning traitors.”

“If you truly think the heart of Findekáno is so conniving then tell me so bluntly, for I do not.”

Once more, Fëanáro could not meet his second son’s gaze. The first letter Morringotto had sent him upon Nelyafinwë’s dramatic liberation had all but begged for the name of his son’s rescuer, a name Fëanáro had sworn to himself that he would not give. He would not repay a great deed – for it had been a great one – with the malevolent cares of Morringotto.

A letter that had sort to deepen the divide between him and his half-kin, had sought to stir him to war.

Was this truly what Morringotto wished?

Fëanáro suddenly felt very weary, exhausted even, as though the flame that sustained him had left, leaving just a hollow shell in its place. And his mind…

“You yourself defended our cousin’s taking of Nelyo’s hand,” Pityafinwë said. “Why now would his motives have changed, and as swiftly as the fever that grips Nelyo?”

“Negotiation seems the best route to take,” came Morifinwë’s reasoning voice. There was another tone underlaying his words, one of a younger brother’s longing to find himself again at his eldest brother’s side even if it was for but a moment.

Fëanáro sat back in his chair, closing his eyes. “Who among you agrees that we should stay our arms?”

“I do,” Kánafinwë said, as expected. Ambarussa too agreed, one after the other. There was a long pause before Curufinwë added his assent. There was no glee or triumph to the concession to their choice.

“Very well then,” their father and King said heavily. His solemness matched that of his sons.

“No!” Turcafinwë cried. “You cannot give up on him so easily!”

“Do you have some magic cure, then?” his father snapped. “Some way to fetch him back and ensure his survival without further bloodshed we cannot afford?”

His son’s expression was one of desperation, but it also bore a Prince’s courage and a brother’s fear. “There must be one,” the younger elf said. “We have simply not found it yet and must continue to look until we do, or would you rather let Nelyo go to the Void without doing everything in our power to stop it. For that is what shall happen if he dies with the Oath unfulfilled. To the everlasting Darkness we swore ourselves if we fail in our deeds. All of us swore it, Nelyo the foremost amongst us save for you, father.”

Turcafinwë was shaking by the end, his grey eyes shining. Fëanáro made to reach a hand for him, but it only convulsed slightly at his side. How appropriate that the brashest amongst them, the bravest and most rash would bring up the looming unspoken matter in the room. To the everlasting darkness they had all said, following in their father’s words, once in Valinor and once upon a battlefield when the greatest and oldest of them had been fey and dying. But Fëanáro had not died. The Darkness about him had not won.

He refused to let it win his son.

Did he have such a choice?

“We swore it twice, father. Twice.” Turcafinwë’s face was as saddened as it was firm. “We are doomed twice as much as you, and has he not spent enough time in Darkness?”

Ai! That was the painful heart of the matter. When Nelyafinwë had been captured there had been moments, though fleeting, where he had wished his son dead, for even the Void was a better fate than eternal cruelty at the hands of the Enemy. Now that he was free, since Turcafinwë had undauntedly confronted it, the weight of that wish had settled fully on Fëanáro. To lose Nelyafinwë would be to lose him permanently.

Did he even know of the sun?

“But what can we do against an insatiable fever that grips our brother?” Kánafinwë cried, his façade of calm finally morphed into the dramatic air of despair. “Do you command life and death itself that you might defeat its designs where the healers and all who aid them cannot?”

“At least I do not condemn our brother to the Void!”

“Enough!” Fëanáro bellowed. “The decision has been made and it is final. We will not attack, but instead negotiate with Ñolofinwë. You will do nothing to jeopardise it.”

Turcafinwë did not deign the command with a response, though his father knew it would be obeyed. Even his third son was not so rash as to attack the other settlement alone and against the explicit orders of his King. Still, he removed himself from the room in a storm of movement, too angry to quite contain himself with the grace he usually had. Moments later, the door to the house was heard slamming shut.

“I will go after him,” Curufinwë sighed and stood to do so. His own eyes were shining, but Fëanáro knew those tears would free themselves only when the elf containing them was alone.

Ambarussa, however, had let their tears fall at the commotion, their hands lying next to each other on the table. Kánafinwë too came to weep, collapsing as his father had in the seat behind him. Morifinwë’s was bowed, his own crying silent but there.

Fëanáro stood and went to each of his sons still present in turn, placing his hands upon their shoulders and pressing his forehead against theirs. _We shall weather this together,_ he told them with osanwë. This knowledge offered comfort, though it was only small.

Leaving his sons to their grief, the smith retreated into his office before his own grief could fully consume him. Closing the door, his eyes alighted upon the last letter he had read and he swept it up in his hand, perhaps out of some stupid notion that the words had changed.

The elf had not wanted to believe the words. What father would? But Kánafinwë was right – what would the healer gain from lying?

_… I tell you solemnly, there is nothing that can be done. Heed your brother’s words. Your son need not die apart from you if this proves to be his end._

_~ Ewinadur, Chief of the healers on the North side of Lake Mithrim_

Fëanáro would have thrown something across the room if there was anything left to throw. As it was, the wooden furniture in his office was now splintered across the ground. It had been no simple feat either; the desk alone had been best described as a slab of solid oak. Now it was in pieces and the floor showed deep gorges where it had landed initially, a testament to the violence the greatest of the Noldor was capable of. The wall too was gorged, though that, at least, had remained intact for stone bent little in the face of the King’s anger.

“May time yet see you sprawled before me that I might rend you into as many strings as this blasted world was woven from!” he screamed at the Darkness in the world. If the Darkness heard, it gave no reply. It needed none. Fëanáro had already seen the worst of its work.

Nelyafinwë could not die. He would not permit it, would storm the very halls of Death to take back his eldest son (yet, it was not to the Halls they had sworn themselves). This sorry saga could not end with such tragedy. Fëanáro would not let it.

He refused to. He had refused the Valar, after all.

(Yet, who had ever refused the pull of the Doomsayer when the strings between fëa and hröa were pulled too thin? Even the great and respected Finwë had gone like a dog to its master’s whistle upon that bloody blow.

Even Míriel had gone, taken by death when Estë and Irmo – and all their Maia – had been fighting against that very thing.

She had gone so easily.)

(Had they gone so easily, guided by the frozen snow, those friends of his lost upon that thrice-damned Ice?)

Fëanáro did not want to lose anyone else.

He looked at the letter again, the one from his father’s once most acclaimed healer, the letter from his half-brother long since torn up and cast aside. Panic had stifled his fury and what words he had skimmed before on the crest of that inner flame, he now read and reread devoutly as though they contained some hidden salvation from this horror he had been trapped in ever since that damned eagle appeared:

_Curufinwë Fëanáro, eldest of the late Finwë,_

_Know that I take no pleasure in writing what I do here. I remember well when you first brought Maitimo to meet your father, birthed in the Wilds on one of the many journeys you took wit Nerdanel. I had never seen my friend so angry nor hurt that neither of you had sought his house at such a delicate time. Truly, had the smallest of hands not grasped his braids when they did, had not a tuff of copper hair revealed itself, then that day would have ended not in congratulations, but shouting. Yet, I had never him so joyous either. Maitimo was only the first of many grandchildren, but he was the first and, I think, perhaps the dearest to Finwë’s heart because of it._

_He found a place in my heart as well, though he was not dearest to me – that place is taken by all those I helped your wife and the wives of your brothers to deliver. There is a special place in the heart made for those children we bring into the world with our own hands and determination. Was it your hands that guided Maitimo to life? I suspect so, and my sympathies lie with you for the bond between Maitimo and you as father and son has been forged more times than nearly any other I know: first as your child, second as your first child, third as your eldest son and heir, and last as the child you helped deliver. This news will not be easy for you to hear, but it must be heard._

_Ñolofinwë speaks the truth – your son is very ill and the chances of him recovering beyond the cycle of this moon are too slim to account for. Maitimo is wracked by a fever that will not release him and we cannot ascertain its cause, despite many attempts of our own to understand it and despite seeking aid from the equally baffled Sindar healers as well. There were no infections or injuries left untreated that we could find, although we have examined him many times and bathed him in water mixed with athelas and ginger, have smoothed honey over the worst of his wounds. No, this fever seems without cause. I dealt with fevers upon the Helcaraxë, but none quite like this. I have never encountered anything quite like this._

_He burns. No herb or tincture or poultice can alleviate the burning. It is as though some fire consumes him from the inside out, some poison we’ve no antidote to, some disease yet undiscovered and yet without a cure. Fever gripped him before, but he shook and sweated like all those others who have been gripped by sickness so intensely. Now his skin is as dry as yours or mine might be. Yet, it burns._

_Even as I write a thought strikes me. This ailment may transcend the simple, battered hröa of your son. If so, then I fear we have truly lost him for even Lady Míriel was not so sick in mind and spirit when she inevitably made that crossing to Nämo’s care. You know well that the hröa draws its strength of healing from the fëa, and if that is too damaged… Maitimo is nearing his death more rapidly than any of us would like, and were we to force him to live beyond his natural time, then would that not make us like the Foe we fight?_

_I tell you solemnly, there is nothing that can be done. Heed your brother’s words. Your son need not die apart from you if this proves to be his end._

_~ Ewinadur, Chief of the healers on the North side of Lake Mithrim_

Fëanáro laughed and it was no good thing. Rather, it seemed that a madness or the product of such had overtaken the elf’s stricken mind. Desolation and despair rang inside it, making Fëanáro hate the sound intensely.

Had Ewinadur given such a laugh when his hand wrote of Nelyafinwë’s doom? Surely not, for the healer was always professional in his mannerisms. Fëanáro imaged that even upon the Helcaraxë one who had been held in such esteem by his father would not allow emotion to consume and blind him even as other elves had folded in weakness, succumbed to the cold and the shifting ground his half-brother had been too arrogant to turn back from.

No, Ewinadur would not have laughed while he wrote such a letter by the side of Nelyafinwë’s gaunt and scarred face.

Nor would he lie. Not about this, not with his fear of Fëanáro’s retribution, not with his loyalty to Finwë and his sons – though he had given his strongest loyalty not to Finwë’s heir. There had been anger when Fëanáro had read his half-brother’s words, even more when Ewinadur’s own confirmed them. The damage to the room was testament to his fury. Kánafinwë was right.

Perhaps if he had stayed by Nelyafinwë’s side, had refused to be driven away by his half-brother- Yet, what could he do that Ewinadur could not?

Lend the strength of his fëa, perhaps. Three days he had done so and had succeeded in tethering Nelyafinwë more securely to the world, though only slightly. Only slightly.

The slightest of pressures could easily snap those last threads of life and rip his son away from him and it seemed that is exactly what would happen. His eldest son, gone. Just like that.

To the Void, no less.

Fëanáro collapsed upon his knees beside the gorges he had made in the floor, his face pressed to his hands as he wept. It was ugly weeping (had never been beautiful for him). Not the sort one might associate with an elf, but surely the sort of a father already bereft and soon to be bereft of more. How many times must this one son be stolen from him? His beautiful (ruined), eldest son? A roar cleft the world around him and it must have left his lips for no one else could have sounded so desolate, like the echo of a thousand great iron bells bouncing off the ruined walls of a fallen fort into silence.

It was all too much. He had spent ages in grief mourning for the loss of Nelyafinwë, of his Russandol, tearing feverishly at the world so he could get him back to no avail. Now Findekáno had gone and, with the grace of Thorondor and thus Manwë, returned with a skeleton he could not forget was his son. That skeleton-son was still kept from him in the arms of those elves who disputed his rule (his enemies, a darker thought in his head whispered). Now Nelyafinwë was dying in those arms, shredding whatever spark of hope his reappearance had stirred from the anguished flame of his father.

Ewinadur’s looped handwriting flashed before his eyes once more:

_He burns._

“Burns!” he cried as though saying it aloud would resolve the injustice of that word. How ironic that the most innocent of them was now burning alive. Indeed, he had surely been burning alive since his capture – the sight of burns from sun and flame upon that fair, freckled skin still haunted Fëanáro in the quietest moments inside his forge when the fire caught his gaze.

Would it haunt Mahtan, if he knew? ( _Do not think of Mahtan_ , he told himself. _He made his choice_.)

Tears ran, dripping from the great Noldo’s chin and nose, his bowed head a witness to the wretched wringing of his hands, a prayer he could not speak – for he had long foresworn the powers it was spoken to – trapped in those convulsing fingers. Those fingers had guided while his wife from an Age and a land away had pushed, had borne first a perfect head and then the perfect rest into Ilúvatar’s marred world. He had feared at the start that such a world would not stand for such perfection, that it would take out its jealousy on the silver-eyed babe born free of the slippery veil that hung over nearly every city and town Fëanáro had known. It was a father’s fear compounded by a husband’s which ever waited for the time that his wife would fade from incurable exhaustion. Everyone had told him it was unfounded, that it was an unhealthy obsession. Now had had been proven right and the weight of it was crushing.

Who could he ask for salvation for his son if not those who Fëanáro had abandoned and had abandoned him as far back as his first fleeting doubts? They had lived in a bubble in Valinor, had been blinded by the Valar, the brethren of he who had taken and mutilated his son.

Was this the Doom Nämo had foreseen, for him to lose his eldest so cruelly, separated from him by a gulf snow and shadow and ego had carved? (Whose ego? Surely not his own. He could not survive it, losing sweet Nelyafinwë to such, could barely survive the guilt of being the cause of why he had tried to negotiate with monsters. Of being the cause of where he must surely end in death.)

Fëanáro continued weeping. Each breath was a shuddering mockery of the easy ones he had taken not long before, a mockery of those stuttering breaths he had last seen his son taking when politics drove him away. Grief curled in his heart, and fear so crippling that he still could not stand, underlaid by a longing simultaneously intense and simple, wanting only his child back in his arms that he might sing him off to sleep.

There was a groan, though it did not come from the elf. The sound of debris being pushed aside by a door resounded quietly through the room.

“Grandfather?” came the voice of Telperinquar, unexpected but not unwelcome. “I heard…”

He drew short, uncharacteristically choking on his words. Fëanáro looked up and took in his grandson’s pale face, the unshed tears in his eyes. The smith raised an arm, beckoning Telperinquar to him. The younger elf went willingly, allowing himself to be pulled into the elder’s embrace.

“Oh, Telpe,” Fëanáro sighed. “Let loose your grief for your eldest uncle. I fear he shall never return home.”

Telperinquar clutched him tighter, a sob breaking through his lips. “It’s not fair,” he said.

“I know.”

But Arda marred could not be fair by its very nature and that of the one who had marred it. Fëanáro placed a hand on the back of his grandson’s head, stroked that place with his thumb hoping that the gesture would offer some comfort. He made no effort to hide or stem his tears, though his weeping had subsisted to a quieter thing now his focus had shifted to helping another. The child had no mother now for she had been to frightened and stubborn to defy the Valar. He had grown exceptionally, though, and his skills were the envy of many.

_If only smithing could save my son._

A time was spent in that mournful position, each drawing comfort from the other. Neither measured the passing of the sun in the sky, but it had not yet reached its highest point when they broke apart and dried their eyes, both aware of the other duties to which they had to attend. Yet, both were drawn, as they ever were, to the place where their hearts could be steadied by the tempo of a falling hammer.

“I shall meet you in the forges shortly and we shall see what of this grief we can beat out onto metal plates,” Fëanáro said at last, his thumbs coming to remove the last trails of tears upon his grandson’s face. “I have letters to write first.”

It was as kind a dismissal as any and Telperinquar nodded his head, bowing it slightly before he exited the upturned office. His own kindness laid in the fact that he raised no concerns over the state of the room and how that might inhibit such work.

Fëanáro himself looked around at the damage, grimacing now he no longer saw it through a veil clouded by potent emotion. Grasping the desk, he righted it with some effort and then the chair after it, half-heartedly replacing some of the papers strewn about the floor before giving it up for a task at a later date. The elf sat at the desk and placed his head in his hands, still feeling as hollow as before.

It was this movement that caused one rumpled document to catch his eye, a scrap of parchment covered frugally with black letters written by an elegant hand. It was Lalwendë’s writing – he recognised it well enough from centuries past when he had helped a young elfling with her lessons.

Curiosity and a vague sort of dullness drove the elf to pick up the note, which he must have placed aside before and lost amongst all the documents a King must sign. He read: 

_I do not know what you said to Itarillë in full the day you left, but whatever it was has left its mark. Perhaps even a good one. Make no mistake, I still hate you half-brother of mine, but I find myself at a loss for what to do for her._

_You alone have long experience in the matter of a mother’s absence and all the woe that can come from it if this absence is mishandled. She fears to become like you and others’ talk does not help this. Elenwë was good and sweet and kind, and her daughter is much like her. She does not deserve the grief she found on the Helcaraxë, nor the whispers that your own actions as Finwë’s son have fuelled._

_If there ever was a shred of goodness in your heart, send a reply and your advice on this matter. Consider it one of the many reparations you owe us for your wicked deeds in Losgar._

His half-sister had the gall to leave the note unaddressed and unsigned, but her handwriting and abrupt way of speaking in her fury was distinctive enough. Nor was that the end of her rudeness: between the lines were more insults than she could have ever written in full. Yet, that space twixt words also spoke of another thing, of an ability to have greater tolerance for a sibling she despised if he could, in fact, give aid to little Itarillë.

Fëanáro remembered his conversation with the rapidly growing child well, her wide blue eyes and her fear which had seemed so similar to his own. How often did tragedy repeat itself? The elf could only hope, in the inner depths of his heart, that she would not also lose her father as he had his to the Lord of the Dark.

This memory stirred him to take up a quill, pushing aside his other griefs as the oldest in his heart took the forefront place again.

He wrote.

Then he took another parchment piece and, with a far heavier heart, began to draft his reply to Ñolofinwë. No one should give reparations to traitors whose demise was their own fault, but sometimes politics and diplomacy called for some give. Indeed, the secret was that Fëanáro would give everything to hold his son one last time and let his son’s brothers hold him too, but he was King and his people required him to sway sometimes but to never bend to enemy and all else who bore them ill will. It was for his people he would not call arms to war. For them.

(For the fear that such a call was not his at all.)

(But if Ewinadur lied, his mind whispered…)

(If they had poisoned Nelyafinwë to ensure the failure of his recovery-)

Three days he had sat by his son’s side, three days granted to him by half-blooded traitors and those who followed them. Three times betrayed by kin (was it truly three?); three kin he would lose to the Valar in their incompetence and cruelty.

Three Silmarilli upon the brow of a torturer Ilúvatar had granted life.  

 _Three days,_ Fëanáro wrote. _I will wait no more than three days for your best offer to welcome all of us into your house._

When he had finished, the elf took the letters to the master of their modest aviary. Here he commanded that they be sent immediately, by courier if no birds would fly. Then he strode towards his forge, that the work there could ease the heaviness in his heart.

Along the way, Curufinwë dashed across his path looking out of sorts and failed to reply the first time his father called out to him. The second time he gave Fëanáro an uncharacteristically wild look, which quickly smoothed into a familiar mask. Perhaps he had fought with one of his brothers. Perhaps the weight of his eldest sibling’s fate had truly settled in. Fëanáro place a hand upon his arm, taking a moment to brush his mind in a move of solidarity before they both went on their way, neither wishing to drag their vulnerabilities out in public.

It was only when the great Noldo smith entered through the doors to his forge that he began to feel a little more settled in the whirlwind of the world. His hand moved of its own accord to his favoured hammer and he looked up to where Telperinquar waited.

“I wish to show you something,” he said. “Come, take up a hammer and join me.”

They moved to the anvil where Fëanáro had laid out a stick of metal, the sort used to make swords.

“Are we to craft weapons today?” Telperinquar asked.

“Aye, but not just any,” his grandfather answered. Guiding the youth to stand in front of him and thus the anvil, he guided his hand to strike a sweet spot upon the metal. It rang out with a sound metal did not give save for that embedded with the power of its maker.

“Magic,” Telperinquar breathed.

Fëanáro smiled. “We will be creating what I hope will be the first of many swords capable of not just withstanding time and the lesser iron of Orcs but can shine a light where the deepest shadows fall. For it is one thing to be able to fight your enemy, but quite another to know exactly who they are.”

“What do you mean?”

“This sword, if we do our work well here, will be the first of many to glow when evil things are about,” Fëanáro said. “It will take much spell work even though I have already cast the initial spells to ready the metal for forging, but with the two of us, it should be done quickly enough.”

He indicated for Telperinquar to place the metal into the forge’s fire until it was cherry red. Then he commanded it to be removed, placed back on the anvil where Fëanáro made the first true strike with his hammer. As he did so, he cried aloud a sequence of words. The room seemed to shift and, to Telperinquar who was watching, an intangible, indescribable link between his grandfather and the metal was made.

To the young elf it was like nothing he could remember seeing, though to Fëanáro it was the essence of smithing. This link had been taught to him by Mahtan, who he had supposed for a long while been taught in turn by Aluë. Yet, the Valar had never shown him such in the brief time Fëanáro had spent in his esteemed forges – only Mahtan. This was the bond between fëa and creation, a bond perhaps the Valar could not share in their staggering difference to the elven form. This was a song inside the blacksmith drawn out and cast into a child of inanimate form, just a few tendrils of well-commanded notes, but potent enough to strum against the invisible chords in the metal and send them vibrating.

It whispered to him, but not in the way other things did whisper. Instead of shadow, a metallic thing traced the edges of his mind, speaking in a tongue that very few could understand. There were no words, no conventional sound, but in this tongue was revealed every part of the steel bar before him, every flaw and blemish, every place where strength was coiled waiting to be turned into greater strength still. In this tongue was the name of the steel, the very music its existence was bound to. Every note. Every rise and fall of that metallic melody. Every place where it could be guided into something more if one had will enough to do the guiding.  

Fëanáro turned from the anvil even as the steel grew cold, careful to guide that link between himself and it to the bench where he laid his hammer and a range of other tools. Each tool he caressed with his hand, connecting it to the mental he worked that each might gain the knowledge to know where best to strike and bend and cut.  

“There is a specialty to weaving great spells around metal things,” he said as his hands continued their work. “You must know what metal it is you are working with.”

“Like if it is gold or silver or platinum?” Telperinquar asked. “Father taught me to identify all the metals he knew when I was very young.”

Fëanáro smiled at the pride in his grandson’s figure but shook his head. “It is one thing to know the names and look of metal. It is quite another to know exactly _what_ metal it is.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your father has not told you?”

Now Telperinquar shuffled his feet, his eyes cast downwards. “He hasn’t had the time to go into depth with me about the intricacies of greater spell-work in metallurgy. We were going to back- But then the trees faded and it was dark and then we were here and everyone was focused on building the settlement and forging weapons and I didn’t want to be a bother…”

“Then I shall speak with your father,” Fëanáro said. As an afterthought he ruffled his grandson’s hair. Curufinwë had likely forgotten the promise and a simple reminder would be sufficient to rectify the situation. Still, neglecting his child’s education was inexcusable.

A hand tugged at his sleeve. “Oh, do not be mad at my father. He has been teaching me anything I could ever want to know about the fixtures for buildings and gates, and how mithril can be used to make the finest armour. Father now even lets me complete some of the more important requests he gets so that my work might become more known too.”

“He just has not taught you what it is you most want to know,” Fëanáro said dryly.

Telperinquar looked abashed. “Well…no.”

“Very well.” The elf turned back to the anvil. “In the meantime, _I_ will show you the beginnings of the more complex matters of smithing. Come here.”

Fëanáro raised his hammer and, with a great cry, brought it down sharply upon the same spot he had stuck before. Immediately the metal turned cherry red again, fed by the power of his own fiery fëa. Then he beckoned his grandson make the same blow, using osanwë to foster the bond inside of him.

Telperinquar gasped, his eyes widening. Fëanáro smiled.

“Do you feel it?” he asked.

“I do,” the young elf said. “It is like a symphony though without any musician to play it.”

“We are the musicians,” Fëanáro said. “We are the ones who must guide this…symphony, as you called it, into what form we wish. Not every smith can achieve such. Not everyone can feel it in the same way not everyone can speak to animals as your uncle Turcafinwë can. Only those of a special substance who fëa were made for forging are able and often there are only a few metals they can…feel.”

“Is that why great-grandfather Mahtan almost always works with copper?” Telperinquar asked.

Fëanáro refrained from snorting. “No. He can feel most metals, though not all and not as strongly as, say, I or your father. And he does not just work with copper – no good smith ever works with just one metal to the exclusion or near exclusion of all others. He is just rather fond of copper.” Though he would never say why when Fëanáro had asked.

“Oh. Because of his hair?”

“Perhaps.”

“It is like uncle Maitimo’s, isn’t it?”

Maitimo. Oh! how that name was a mockery now. His sweet, copper haired child lost- “Let us focus on the task at hand.”

His tone was brusque, but Telperinquar did not flinch from it, already too used to such a tone from his own father. Too did he understand the mechanics of grief, better than many others as with all in the House of Fëanáro whose patriarch had ensured they learned long before the Darkening what true grief was.

The great smith stuck the steel before him once more, a hard blow that resounded through the double bond that he had forged with it and his grandson. Telperinquar flinched. The metal did not, hungry for such brutal shaping. Yet, this task would require more finesse, more hope than he had in the goodness of the world.

“You know how to forge a sword, Telpe,” he said to the other there. “Do so. Show me and it your skill.”

Telperinquar obeyed, his movements keen. To the fire, to the hammer, to the fire again he went whilst Fëanáro guided him in the weaving of a spell. Towards the ending, they plunged the emerging sword into a bucket of black liquid that glowed a brilliant, luminescent blue where it was disturbed. Not long after, the sword was completed. It was the finest that Telperinquar had ever made.

Fëanáro smiled in will-hidden exhaustion, finally closing that link between himself and his grandson and the sword. “Its true test will come when evil arrives, but for now show it to your father that he might praise your work.”

Telperinquar grinned, his enthusiasm and youthful innocence, his kind heart that he had surely received from his mother showing through in that grin. Fëanáro hoped it would show enough in the sword to make it recoil from the shadows that would darken such joy.

And when the young elf went away to do as his grandfather commanded, Fëanáro took up another sort of sword and began to work that as well, a frown dressing his face as he forged another bond far darker than the one before.  

Only the sun’s persistent but changing light drew the great smith from his forge. He stretched, grabbed some fruit left outside by one of his attendants or sons and contemplated the fine robes that had also been brought. Finwë had always looked the part of a regal King. Ingwë, it was said, had never been seen in the simple array of lesser standing folk since setting foot in Valinor. Even in Beleriand the few Sindar Lords and Ladies he had seen went more painted than plain faced and plain intentioned. Yet, for all he knew about how others set about fixing their looks to their noble status, Fëanáro could never quite bring himself to care.

So, he removed his apron and left it by the fine robe. Washing his face, neck and hands, and brushing the worst of the dust from himself, the greatest elf of the Noldor went to walk amongst his people.

Later that night he would weep and beg the forgiveness of one who was far across the Ice and sea. He would kneel once again and beat the ground even as the candles around him warded off the Darkness, his old sword at his feet and Findekáno’s by its side as he told himself that, no matter the whispers in his head, this was the best path to take.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the best chapter - Fëanor wouldn't cooperate and I honestly gave up after a while. Nor do I know much about the process of forging a sword, etc., so hopefully didn't botch that up too much. 
> 
> In any case, hopefully the next few chapters will be up soon. If you did enjoy this chapter - or had any thoughts regarding it that you would like to share - please take the time to leave a comment. They are much appreciated.


	9. Chapter 9

Loss laid heavy on their House. Arakáno. Elenwë. Finwë, wise and good.

(Míriel – a name she could not escape no more than she could escape the name of the fire spirit she had birthed.)

Lalwendë’s hand stroked her nephew’s fevered brow. Now they were to lose him as well, the healers already shifting their efforts from keeping him alive to ensuring he passed in peace.

Was the Doom upon them so cruel that it would give them hope and then wrench it away so quickly?

“I remember when you first smiled at me,” she told the elf before her, her eyes closing in sorrow. “A ridiculous statement, I know. Few remember those moments so soon after their birth, yet it remains true – this moment I remember well like I remember the way it felt to first be nestled by my mother’s breast with my father’s hands caressing my head, like I remember the steady heartbeat I heard beneath my ear in those moments of peace. The world was not grey when my eyes first opened. Yet, I could have sworn all the colours seemed brighter when first your white grin beamed down at me. You never truly knew the power of your attentions,” she said, smoothing back cropped copper hair. Now that power, it seemed, would fade after already being diminished so severely by a far greater, darker power. 

Was this to be the fate of all the Exiled who rode into battle against the Dark Foe? The fate of her brother and his sons and their gold headed cousins (the fate of her half-brother and his)?

“Were you to smile me like such again, even just once, I would think the world of it,” came Lalwendë’s breaking voice. “You wore that smile when you helped me with my letters, and later when you sat behind me on my first ride on a horse without my father. Ai, Maitimo…”

But the name felt wrong.

It was not Maitimo who laid before her, whole and perfect and as beautiful as any of his mother’s statues or father’s jewels. The copper hair so lauded over was nigh gone, shorn away – how could she call him Russandol either? The elleth brushed his chin and wondered if, had he been given more time, her nephew would have grown a beard to rival Lord Mahtan’s own.

 _It is pointless to wonder such things,_ she told herself. Her hand, where it laid on his skin, seemed to burn.

Nelyafinwë was not a name that sat well with her either, never had been for the mockery it made of her beloved brother. Three names her eldest nephew had, and all were seemingly unusable to her lips. Indeed, since the eagle’s dramatic arrival, she used Maitimo (never Nelyafinwë) only once when in a moment of rage when unjust accusations levelled at the sick elf had outweighed her abject horror of what he had been physically reduced to. Not even the shortened versions of her nephew’s given names had passed her lips, certainly not before she had learned of his innocence at Losgar when any familiarity with the elf was drowned by rage. Yet, now such familiarity was just another wound to her already aching heart.

Ai. Was this what the Dark Foe did? Take the names of all who crossed him and render them unspeakable? Lalwendë brushed her nephew’s scarred face, slipping a wet cloth over his forehead in a futile, always futile, attempt to cool him. Still, not every misdeed could be blamed on that Vala. Perhaps, instead, the fault laid with her own tongue’s cowardness to once more grasp that timeless link between them as kin when a breath later would see him as gone as ash lost upon the wind. Perhaps…

“Nelyo,” she tried, a whisper lost in the large, incense filled room. She sobbed once and did not speak the name again.

When the door opened and revealed Ewinadur’s solemn face, it was with relief that Lalwendë greeted him. The shame would come later, hidden and lonely kept.

“Lord Ñolofinwë requests your presence in the main room,” he said.

Lalwendë smiled thinly. “Are the rest of our kin there?”

“Yes, my Lady,” Ewinadur said. He stepped further into the room, drawing up to the chair upon with the elleth sat. “I will keep watch here while you discuss what needs to be discussed.” He smiled, though it was small. “The Lady Itarillë has chosen to accompany me.”

The door opened again and Turkáno’s daughter entered, carrying with her a bundle of herbs. Lalwendë recognised the lemon balm, used to create a sense of calm and easy sleep. To facilitate a peaceful rest. The elleth swallowed.

Itarillë, however, bore not the sorrow of the two elder elves in the room, though she was by no means happy. The youth followed Ewinadur’s directions, depositing the herbs on the nearby desk before walking quietly to where he stood. She wrung her hands as she looked upon the elf prone upon the bed. The healer gave her several gentle directions and she followed them, moving to take the cloth from Lalwendë with a murmured thanks, before soaking the cloth in the bowl of water she had taken from the older elleth’s lap and drawing it once more across Maitimo’s brow.

Lalwendë murmured her own thanks. She then stood, wincing upon the rush of fuzzy pain that prickled down her numb legs. The lack of feeling was familiar, a memory never far from her mind. None who had walked the cold Helcaraxë could escape it and the pain it brought- She looked to her nephew, to the scars that adorned his gaunt, skeletal face, to the aura of pain and despair that seemed to hover over him (or was it her own projected onto him?) as he lay closed-eyed and unconscious. Guilt welled up inside of her. What were sleeping legs compared to such cruel torment?

The elleth swallowed her discomfort and the unease it brought, her chin cast high in stubborn pride.

“His fever grows worse,” she murmured when Ewinadur paused by her as he began to bustle about the room. The healer brushed his own hand against his patient’s head and sighed. To neither of them was this unexpected news.

“I shall do what I can,” Ewinadur said, the same thing he had been saying throughout only now it bore a far greater air of defeat.

Lalwendë heaved her own sigh and barely refrained from stumbling from the room, her legs still as numb as they were when she stood. The door closed behind her and she continued down the hallway, staggering now as memories of white and cold and numbness assaulted her mind, no longer held back by the sight of her nephew’s ruined form. A few steps more and the elf could found that she could go no further. Finwë’s youngest daughter near collapsed against the wall. Her hands rubbed at her thighs as she tried to catch her breath.

Breathless. That is what they were upon the Ice. Gales stealing their breath and blizzards freezing it so much so that it hurt to move one’s lungs at all as if they too had been frozen with toes and ear tips never recovered from that desolate place. Lalwendë brushed her smallest finger, felt where it ended too short even with her eyes closed. She had watched it turn black. Watched as it had been hewn off by a healer who supported their own frostbitten parts and her nephew beside them lending support. (How had Findekáno looked when he had hacked off his cousin’s hand?)

Was it ice now that grasped her lungs or panic, such as it had been whenever Lalwendë had woken to find her limbs not as responsive as they should have been?

She could not breathe. Could not feel her legs no matter how hard her hands kneaded into them. The elleth barely refrained from sobbing, her hands now shaking as they had upon the Helcaraxë. She slid down the wall she leaned on until she sat on the ground, no longer feeling as though she were floating unsupported in the air. Lalwendë kneaded her legs, brushed her hands over them, trying to reassure herself that she could feel those numb limbs with her hands at least, feel they were attached through the fabrics of her skirt.

(To wake from slumber, a black ear-tip broken off from restless sleep – there had been stories passed on of such occurring up and down the great column of elves who had braved the trek. Many a story had there been, small at first before time and weariness and the endless horror of endless white had grown ear-tips into noses and noses into whole arms and legs left laying as like black marble behind.)

She could not breathe. She could not breathe.

“Aunt Lalwen!” The voice broke through her panicked haze as hands might break through a sheet of ice, and hands indeed did come to rest upon her shoulders, warm and heavy and kind. “Aunt Lalwen, are you alright?”

Golden waves obscured her vision and Lalwendë blinked, coming back to herself as she gazed upon Angaráto’s fair face. He was frowning in concern, his grey-blue eyes overshadowed by the brows sharply angled above them.

“What is the matter?” he asked and seemed half poised to run to fetch her brother, his uncle.

Lalwendë found that she could not answer, too focused was she on regaining her escaped breath. Instead, she moved to clutch the younger elf to her chest, taking comfort from the fact that most of her family had survived that horrid place. Slowly, slowly her legs began to feel again. In this time Angaráto did not pull away, though his frown deepened. When at last the elder of them could speak, she released him so that she could better see his face.

“I am well now,” she said and brought a hand to his cheek. “Worry not. Grief and memory simply overwhelmed me for a while.”

Angaráto looked down the hall to that ever ominous closed door and surmised where his aunt had come from. A shadow crossed over his own face as he said, “The woe that lies upon out Houses is strong, though were it not for betrayers then perhaps we would be freed from such memories that steal our wits.”

There was a subtle hint of anger to his words, but also weariness and Lalwendë rather thought that sorrow tinged his words as well. How could it not when the cousin he was thinking of (innocent, so innocent in the tales of fire and ice) laid dying? A fixture in the lives of all of Finwë’s other grandchildren, a fixture in the life of Lalwendë herself near as much as Finwë himself had been, would soon be gone like Finwë, lost to the malicious hands of Darkness.

“Did Ñolofinwë send you to fetch me?” she asked, breaking the silence that had fallen over the pair.

“Aye,” Angaráto replied. “It is you the rest wait upon.”

“Then let us not leave them waiting any longer,” she said and reassured herself that this nephew would practice discretion with what he had seen, keeping the sight to himself for the rest of his days.

Angaráto proffered his hand to the elleth, that he might aid her rising from the floor. Lalwendë took it gladly. Her nephew’s grip was strong when he pulled her up, proving the fit of his epessë, Angamaitë – the iron-handed.

“My thanks,” she said as she brushed the dust and wrinkles from her skirts. Then she came to wipe her hands together, shaking off the dirt from them. Here the elf paused, brushing again at brushed the short numb of her smallest finger.

Her other fingers had not been so bad. They were not turned so dark in colouring, though had been clumsy with numbness. How the elf had feared to peel back her gloves each time she did, frightened that a finger or two would come off with them. They never did – though one finger stands shorter than it had in her youth – and the fear, perhaps, was as irrational as the hope that Fëanáro would return to save them with the boats.

Lalwendë had dreamt, during first onerous stretch of time when they truly learned that elven forms were not made to withstand such great cold, that the Spirit of Fire would emerge from the endless white horizon bringing with him blessed warmth as he broke the ice with the Teleri’s ships. In the intermittent flickers of consciousness, Lalwendë could only just recall the feel of Ñolofinwë’s arms around her and the sound of his desperate voice as he begged her not to go into endless sleep. Yet, how sweet those dreams were of warmth and friendship. How she had wept when the fever left her and cursed the frozen tears on her cheeks.

(Where had her eldest brother gone, fled from younger years when tempers were tempered with something she was too reluctant now to claim as love?

She remembered a brother who smiled and laughed and thrown her child-self into the air, always catching her as she fell again to the earth, never shying from the elfling who grabbed his hair too roughly in the high spirit of things. She remembered a brother who had kissed her brow, had told her stories alongside his eldest as they both listened with wide-eyed awe.

She remembered being lost in the snow once in her youth, crying until he had found her whole and well-)

She had quickly learned to shut such dreams up in an untouched place in her heart. Seclusion and silence was the cure for irrational thought.

“Are you certain you are well, Aunt?” a voice asked from in front of her.

Lalwendë blinked, then mustered up a smile for the once more worried face of Angaráto. “My mind wanders,” she said. “Let us go and see what the future will hold for our Houses.”

Angaráto said nothing in reply and followed his aunt silently to where the other adults of their respective families waiting in the main lounge of the house. Ñolofinwë stood in the center, tapping his fingers together absently as he waited for the last of his kin to arrive. He gave a nod of thanks to Angaráto as they entered the room and gestured for Lalwendë to stand by his side.

Angaráto himself went to stand by where Artanis sat, she in turn playing with the hair of Iríssë who sat by her feet. Ambaráto stood with Artaresto to their other side, and after them Findaráto and Turkáno. Findekáno stood alone, his arms folded and his countenance strangely blank. Lalwendë wished she could hold him in support, but now was not the time to give such comforts.

“We are here to discuss what the future may bring,” her brother began, his voice resolute in its tone. “You know well that beyond this room Maitimo lies ailing in this house and Ewinadur and our other healers look over him with the duty they show all those who are their patients. You also know that across the other side of the Lake Mithrim Maitimo’s father and brothers wait for news of his recovery, or, as now seems more likely, his impending death.”

Ñolofinwë paused on the last word, only briefly, but it was a telling pause all the same. The others in the room were not unaffected either, both Iríssë and Artanis covering their mouths, while Findekáno gave a strangled sound that could have been a sob. Findaráto heaved a sigh and a shadow passed over even Turkáno’s stoic face. Artaresto’s hand found that of his immediate older brother’s and what seemed like a prayer fled his lips. A sense of Doom had descended over the room so heavily that it made even Lalwendë shift uneasily.

Nevertheless, Ñolofinwë continued. “It was understood when Fëanáro left here that negotiations for access to his son would resume upon Maitimo’s waking. Some had hoped, by then, perhaps foolishly, that your cousin would be well enough to return to his brethren without any of them coming here. Now, however, it seems we must negotiate just that.”

“You would invite those betrayers here?” Angaráto cried, indignant.

“It seems a poor choice,” his uncle sighed, “But the other choices left to us are poorer still. Should we deny Fëanáro access to his dying son, then war will surely come knocking at our gates by dawn. With him will come all those who follow ever in his wake and those still who would call Maitimo Prince and friend, all incensed beyond the ability to reason or demand.”

“Besides,” Findaráto added softly. “Do we not have a duty to allow father and son, brother and brother, no matter who they are, one last moment together ere their kin carries on beyond this world?”

“Whatever your opinions, it is decided. I have already extended the arm of diplomacy to Fëanáro,” Ñolofinwë said. “He has, for now, accepted the offer of seeing his son a final time. How and where and when this meeting will occur has not yet been determined, but it will occur and, with luck, it will deter further action from his side against us.”

“If it is decided, then why call us here?” Artanis asked.

“To tell you all where things stand,” Ñolofinwë answered. “And to let you speak on how you wish for this matter to be handled. What you propose here and agree upon I shall then take before the Council.”

The other elves gathered in the room thought upon this, a silence taking hold as they weighed their options and their Lord’s desire with their own.

It was young Artaresto who broke the silence, timid in his words but brave enough to try. “If they must come, we could invite them here in groups of two or three and require each to leave before a new one comes, so that at no time all here at once or for too long.”

“That is a valid suggestion, nephew,” Ñolofinwë said with an encouraging smile. Artaresto returned it with a small tweak of his own lips and a shy ducking of his head as his nearest brother ruffled it. Soon enough, however, he would grow into his own Lordship and such shyness would leave him – this Lalwendë knew (hoped she knew).

“Then it becomes a question of who comes when and with whom,” Angaráto said. “Would we want Carnistir and Tyelkormo together with their father, the three most known for their fiery tempers?”

“Would Fëanáro and his sons allow for such strict conditions, though?” Artanis asked, then gave a short bark of laughter. “Nay! I remember all of them being stubborn and resistant to any effort they perceived in their paranoia to control them too much.”

“They should accept the need for such conditions, regardless, being the ones who caused such need,” Turkáno broke in.

“Aye, it is they who bear the burden of responsibility for this. We care for their kin and use our resources to do so,” Ambaráto added.

 “What they should do and what they will do has already proven to be vastly different,” Artanis said in return. “I would count on nothing from my traitorous uncle and his sons.”

 “Still, small groups would be deemed acceptable by the people,” Ñolofinwë said. “Perhaps we could pass off even two larger groups with four apiece, if they were to bring Tyelperinquar as well. Then neither Fëanáro nor his sons could accuse us of dragging the process out unnecessarily either.”

“And if our cousin should die in the intermittent time between the two?” Findaráto asked, noting the plan’s glaring flaw.

“So long as Fëanáro is first, he would have no reason to complain. They could have saved their brother when given the chance and chose not to,” Ambaráto countered. “If Findekáno was able to do so alone, so should they have been capable of the same.”

“You make too much of their bravery,” Artanis sneered. “They are ever cowards.”

“Fëanáro is petty besides,” Lalwendë said. “If even one of his sons were not given the chance to bid farewell to their brother, then he would as easily call a war as he would burn ships. You all saw the ease of which he fell into the fray at Alqualondë and how easily his sons fell in behind him.”

(Did Fëanáro join that violence easily? She did not know, but to think so made it easy to hate.)

“It still remains that we cannot have all of them here at once,” Turkáno said. “There would be a revolt if we did.”

“Why, then, do we not take Maitimo to them?” Iríssë asked. The idea gave them all pause. The White Lady of the Noldor, meanwhile, raised a hand as though what she had said was the most obvious thing in the world. “We could not move our cousin before for fear it would undo any good work done, but if that fear is no longer there for the knowledge that his ending is inevitable, how much harm could it do to move him now?”

“If he dies in the moving, then Fëanáro and his ilk could well accuse us of sabotaging Maitimo’s healing,” Findaráto said.

“And if he does not die? It is an easy solution.”

“But then where would the meeting be?” Ambaráto asked. “Out in the space between the two settlements where an orc may stumble upon it? How many more warriors would we need to pull from another duty to ensure the safety of those meeting? Is such a meeting worth that loss?”

“The onus could lay on Fëanáro to provide his warriors,” Artaresto said.

“And allow him the greater number? We know what happens when an enemy arrives with more forces than you can muster.” His brother gestured vaguely to where their eldest cousin laid.  

“Fëanáro is not the Dark Foe,” Ñolofinwë said.

 _No_ , Lalwendë thought. _He is just mad and vindictive and bent on seeing you brought low, brother._

“We must also consider the length of time for which this meeting must occur,” Findaráto spoke up, breaking up any argument before it could start. “Do we allow them to only see Maitimo for a few hours or a day, or do we allow them to sit with him until his passing?”

“There is no way to tell what time his passing may be,” Lalwendë said. “What if they must linger for a week?”

“A week is not so long a time to the lifespan of an elf.”

“It is Ages to one who must suffer the cause of their hardships,” Ñolofinwë replied, “And Ages more to one whose child is dying.”

“Why must you all speak as though the worst has already come to pass?” Findekáno suddenly cried, speaking up for the first time since the meeting had begun. “Maitimo is ill, yes, but he is not yet dead. There is still hope that he may recover.”

“Finno,” Lalwendë began gently, stretching a hand out to her nephew. “Ewinadur says-”

“It is Ewinadur’s duty to heal the sick. It is not his duty to give up on them.”

“He has not given up,” Ñolofinwë said, his words stern. “It may seem that way to you after the efforts you exerted in brining your cousin back to us, but he can do no more than he has already done. Should you have found it impossible to bring Maitimo back alive, would not you too have admitted defeat where defeat needed to be admitted, where there was nothing more you could do to save him?”

Findekáno quietened at this argument, his face turning a little pale – perhaps with memory, Lalwendë to herself. Walking through Angamando and the lands that surrounded it could not have been a pleasant task. Even the air by the Lake Mithrim seemed oppressive when the Black Foe’s smog rolled through it.

“What good is it to have saved him then?” Ñolofinwë’s eldest asked, a tremor to his voice. “If he is to die anyway, what good is it to have brought him here?”

“The good of knowing he dies not in torment and the Enemy’s arms,” Ñolofinwë answered, his voice gentle as he came to place a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Do not think that your valiant actions were in vain. They have done much good and may do more should we approach everything in the right way.”

Findekáno wrenched himself free of his father and retreated to the corner of the room, though he did not speak. A heavy silence passed, before Ñolofinwë broke it again.

“It is a grave matter that we discuss,” he said, “This is not lost on me. The death of one’s kin, no matter how estranged, and to such a terrible fate is not something that I think any of us can bear easily.”

“Your cousin’s fever will not subside,” Lalwendë said, managing not to falter on her words. “Each new moment sees it consume him more than the one before it. Perhaps the years he spent nurtured in hröa and fëa by the divine light of the Trees has lent him the strength to last until now, but even that strength must falter eventually. The healers hold little hope that it will not.”

The room reacted as it had before, mournful in the face of tragedy.

“Will he go to the eternal Darkness?” Artaresto asked in a small voice, remembering that vile Oath Fëanáro and his sons had taken.

It was not just Findekáno who sobbed at that.

Ñolofinwë’s hand brushed his mouth. Lalwendë knew it for the sign it was of his insurmountable grief. “It is not for us to speculate where his fëa will go,” he said. “It is only to us to ease his going and ensure our people are not harmed because of it.”

“Will there truly be a war if he dies as the rumours say?” Iríssë asked quietly, as though the truth of the thought had only struck her now.

Her father could not lie, and his face was grim. “If it were just the brothers- But you know how well Fëanáro took your grandfather’s death. The death of a child is something entirely different and entirely worse. I have no doubt that the Noldor’s apparent king would call for my blood and the blood of my own children should your cousin die in our care.”

“He responded well enough to your request to negotiate,” Lalwendë pointed out.

“It remains to be seen how well he will keep to his words this time around,” her brother replied.

“This time we have the better standing,” Angaráto said.

Ambaráto nodded. “They will not attack whilst their fading kin remains in our care, either out of proper courtesy or fear.”

“Aye,” Turkáno said. “Whatever is decided, should they deny the conditions we put forth, I see no reason as to why we cannot deny them access until they accept.”

“You speak as though Maitimo is some game piece for you to move around a board of stratagem, or worse, a hostage that you can take advantage of!” Findekáno spat. Findaráto went to place his hand on his cousin’s arm to calm him, but Findekáno brushed him off and continued. “Have you no shred of kinship left to feel between yourselves and the one you so readily cast off as a mere pawn in your plotting?”

“Preparing for the inevitable is hardly plotting,” Angaráto answered, “However painful the inevitable might be. We have all been hurt before by Fëanáro and those who follow him. It would be unwise to not use every advantage we have now to ensure the safety of those who follow us.”

“That is no excuse to treat Maitimo as nothing more than surety.”

“If you suggest that we would not mourn his passing, then you are wrong,” Angaráto snapped. “I see you yourself are consumed by your grief, but do not accuse us so.”

“And much grief is one such as he worth in truth?” Turkáno asked harshly. “As kin and friend and cousin, yes, I shall shed my tears for his passing. Yet, I will not shed them in excess. My wife died upon the Helcaraxë alongside many a dear friend. _Children_ froze there and you ask me why I do not treat our cousin more warmly?”

“I would ask why you treat the sick with such disrespect for his being,” Findekáno said.

“Because he burned the ships!” Turkáno roared.

“It should matter not what he has done,” his brother replied in kind. “He is our kin and he is ill, having suffered more than any other I know, and that is without knowing the truth of what he suffered in that place. He is too weak now to offer any threat to you or yours. Aye! You all place him on his deathbed already.”

“That does not change his actions against us,” Turkáno said. “We have done our duty to him in caring for him in his illness. Yet, we are obliged to do no more for one who so easily condemned us to our own torment upon the Helcaraxë. If he aids us as hostage or otherwise in increasing the strength and standing of our people once more, then I see no reason as to why utilise this advantage. Consider it a reparation for his actions if you must to sleep well, but I will not sit by and let our people be hurt again for some long burnt out friendship laid to rest amidst the burnt husks of ships.”

“What if Maitimo had no part in the burning?”

The words were Findaráto’s and Lalwendë suddenly found herself breathless again, this time deliberately so as she held in the air in apprehension of the room’s response. Beside her, her brother did the same, shifting minutely to his favoured leg as though preparing for some battle. It was a subtle tell, but a tell nonetheless.

“Do you joke?” Turkáno spluttered, and perhaps it was only because they were such good friends that he did not strike Findaráto there and then.

“I merely mean to point out that we are assuming we know what happened at Losgar that ill-fated day,” the golden-haired elf said. “Perhaps it would not be unwise to learn more before we set our judgments of our kin in stone.”

“There have been no whispers, not even a mutilated rumour from the other side that any such thing occurring,” Iríssë spat and her harsh scepticism was mirrored in the faces of all around her.

“Yet, if it were true, perhaps they would not speak for the guilt it caused them?” Findaráto said, though his words were met with little acceptance. Only Findekáno seemed to consider them at all and his resultant expression was painful to look upon.

“We are not here to speculate on such things,” Ñolofinwë broke in before the discussion could carry on further. Perhaps he used osanwë to remind their nephew of his promise, but Lalwendë could not know for sure. Still, Findaráto subsided, though his expression was not a happy one, the storm caught in his blues betraying the betrayal he clearly felt at not defending his cousin’s innocence further.

Lalwendë closed her eyes against the sight. Even if the matter’s wrongness sat upon her, they were obliged to do the best for their people and their kin.

“If there are no further comments to add,” Ñolofinwë said, “Then I will bring the matters discussed here to the Council upon the morn of tomorrow. What is decided there shall be sent to Fëanáro and then we can only wait for his reply. Whatever is decided, I want no clamouring against it. We must think of our people in such times as this and remember our obligation as Lords, and Ladies, lies first and foremost to them. Am I understood?”

Each head present nodded but one, Findekáno once more stepping forth as he protested the brutal mechanics of politics.

“I beg you do not give Maitimo up so easily,” he said. “Not to this illness and not to the games of those who wish to play diplomat with the other settlement. He is not a piece to be used as pleased by those whose care he resides in. He is not a pawn and I beg you do not make him as such.”

His father closed his eyes, no doubt unable to look at his son’s own. Lalwendë found she could not even as her brother said, “We must do what we must.”

“Since when do we use each other as a means to an end?” his son cried in earnest.

“That is the nature of politics, Finno,” Ñolofinwë said wearily.

“Then it is not the sort of politics that I wish to take part in,” said Findekáno in turn. Then he turned and went from the room.

His sister rose after him, ever keen for the chase, and after her went Turkáno with a heaving sigh, his head bowing as he no doubt sought his daughter. The others too took this as cue to leave, Artanis exiting on Angaráto’s arm, and Ambaráto side by side with Artaresto so only the eldest of them was left with Ñolofinwë and Lalwendë.

Findaráto exhaled a long breath and collapsed into his sister’s vacated chair. “That did not go as well as it could have.”

“That is an understatement,” Lalwendë said as she came to lean upon the back of the chair. Her gaze, however, was fixed on her brother who suddenly seemed so very tired and alone, still standing in the center of the room. “Still, it could have been worse. No blood was drawn.”

No swords were drawn against a brother’s throat.

Lalwendë could have laughed. Was that the measure of their family now? That their weapons were wielded not towards each other, though too easily they would fall as Arakáno and as her other, copper haired nephew to the weapons of the Enemy?

“They are not open to the idea that Maitimo might be innocent of the harm done unto us,” Ñolofinwë said, sounding as though he had emerged from a deep pool of contemplation.

“Perhaps if you had let me speak of it further,” Findaráto began.

“Then perhaps we would have ended with blood after all,” Lalwendë said wearily. “You were right, brother. They will not accept the news in the frame of mind they possess now. It is too soon.”

“And when will it no longer be ‘too soon’?” their nephew asked. “When Maitimo has long departed and age has worn on us more than the violence of all the years combined?”

“When the situation is right and presents itself as such to us,” Ñolofinwë answered. “Until then, will you keep this secret a while longer from _everyone_?”

Findaráto gave him an unhappy look. “Maitimo should not die a villain, marked so by our fear of the truth. Yet, I will do as you ask, uncle, for you know better than I of how to deal with such a tempestuous politic time. If,” he said, “You promise to ensure our kin’s memory is not tarnished by such deception.”

Ñolofinwë inclined his head. Lalwendë undid her clenching hands.

Findaráto stood from his chair, no longer in the mood to discuss things with his aunt and uncle. “If you would excuse me, I would see to where my siblings have gone and what my followers do in my absence.”

Then he too left, leaving brother and sister, as always, alone.

Now Ñolofinwë collapsed upon the chair, his head falling at once into his large hands. Lalwendë came around to place her own atop them, marvelling at their smallness in comparison and steadfastly ignoring that shortened finger.

“You only do your best,” she said. “It is all any of us can do here.”

“Why must it be so complicated, though?” her brother replied. “Surely father did not deal with matters such as these, with the need to use his dying kin as a means to ensure what is good and right for his people.”

Lalwendë stroked his frazzled hair. “Father faced not what we do here. His example can only guide you so far; eventually you must learn to take such steps on your own. It is not so hard as you think – you did so upon the Helcaraxë and before then, when the Darkness first swallowed the world.” She stroked his hair again, pulling his hands away from his face. “Do not doubt yourself, Ñolvo. I have seen you lead and see you do it well, difficult decisions and all. Our people trust you and would follow you whatever your decision for they know you have only their best interests at heart.”

“But does Findekáno?”

His sister swallowed, closing her eyes for a long moment before she made a reply. “His grief blinds him to reason, but ever has he come back to that path when he has strayed from it. Give him time. Let him mourn as he will and come to reason in his own time. Until then, he will not go against you whatever he feels.” She stroked her brother’s tired face with both her thumbs, leaning in to kiss his forehead as he had done for her so many times in their youth. “And know he will always love you. That will not change no matter what comes to pass.”

For a while after, both were silent though one of Ñolofinwë’s hands had come to stroke Lalwendë’s hair in return.

“Since when did you get so wise?” he asked, and seemed a sad question perhaps acknowledging the death of their youth. Then he stood and kissed her forehead in return, before setting off to do what he had to as Lord of the settlement on the Northern side of Mithrim.

Lalwendë stayed in the room a while longer, wondering if their father could see them from the Halls of the Dead.

Then she too stood and left, bustling about the house until her bustling brought her back to that sad hallway with that closed door upon the end of its length. Here she passed not quickly, but not slowly either, only coming to a pause when her ears twitched toward a sound she had not heard in a long time. 

“…then you rescued me from the tree and proceeded to lecture me on the stupidity of that dare. At the time it was worse than the lectures mother and father gave me, than father’s threat to deny me the hound Oromë had promised.”

The voices faded back to a murmur where Lalwendë had passed that solemn room where her nephew laid in unnatural sleep. Disbelief warring with the incessant need to know for sure, she pressed her ear to the door and heard as tales from another Age were told about a young elf and his six brothers by an almost steady voice.

The elleth found herself frozen and her mouth agape. It was impossible, for even if one had been so brash, to get past everyone in the settlement without notice… And yet-

“Do you think he hears them?” came the unmistakable voice of Tyelkormo.

“Sometimes I think it is better if he does not,” the other elf in the room replied, revealed by his voice to be Findekáno who must have replaced Ewinadur’s vigil.

This did not explain Tyelkormo’s presence at all.

Still half disbelieving what her ears reported back, Lalwendë silently cracked open the door. Her eyes watered at the strong scent of incense escaping from its confinement, but the irritants did not reveal her to the two conscious elves in the room.

The window was ajar, clearly the entrance her less than welcome half-nephew had used to enter this place. Tyelkormo’s form was cut in front of it, kneeling at his brother’s side with one hand on his forehead as though he could draw out the fever himself. It was he who had been recounting the tales, Findekáno listening silently from the chair.

Why had Findekáno not called out upon the discovery of Tyelkormo was beyond her, and yet- Perhaps it was not. Lalwendë could see clearly in her head the imaginings of a scenario playing out, Tyelkormo knocking upon the window when he saw his cousin there, his eyes as pleading as a doe’s whose fawn was caught in the muddy banks of a river, and his words speaking of brotherhood and a need so potent he could not stay his feet and obey his father. If Fëanáro had been disobeyed.

Lalwendë stepped further into the room, her face setting into a stern countenance that barely masked her rage at this ship-burner and gazed upon the other two elves with displeasure. Between them all their hapless kin laid in slumber, eyes closed and the only reason why shouting did not begin there and then.

“What is the meaning of this?” the elleth spat. “Why are you here?”

“Because my brother is,” Tyelkormo replied as he rose to meet her, his chin proud and his eyes flashing. “And all else have abandoned him.”

“You have no right to be here.”

“I have every right.” He gazed upon his brother, grief breaking across his prideful features so that they seemed a mockery of themselves.

If his brother were awake, what look would he give in return to the desolate expression on the younger elf’s face? Against her will, Lalwendë found her heartstring’s tugged in sympathy, much as they had been when she had gazed upon the broken countenance of her half-brother confronted with the failure of the Noldor to bring Moringotto low. Against her will, she found herself moved, more so when Tyelkormo spoke again with an earnest she had not known him capable of.

“My father told us of his injuries,” Tyelkormo said. “His face when he did so- I did not understand, _could_ not understand in full until now. How is it that this is my brother who lays before me? And yet it cannot be anyone else.” There was a pause as he sobbed, then regained himself, growing more collected once again. “He does not know I am here, in case you were wondering, and it would be in all our best interests, I suppose, were you to refrain from telling him.”

“I suppose you do not want me to tell your uncle either,” Lalwendë said dryly.

“Do you?”

Lalwendë did not. So long as she could surmise that her nephew had done nothing more than one straight from the gate to here, then perhaps it would be best for all involved to leave this moment as one unsaid. Ñolofinwë already had so much on his plate, he did not need to deal with the rashness of an impatient brother too.

“He came straight from the gates to here,” Findekáno interjected. He inhaled. “Iríssë let him in.”

His aunt sighed. That made more sense than Findekáno and now she would have to have words with her niece as well. Still, there was the matter at hand to deal with.

“I suggest you leave,” Lalwendë said. “Findekáno can help you remain unseen.”

“I won’t abandon my brother! Not again.”

“And you will be granted a chance to see him before the end _so long as you adhere to what is decided in the negotiations_.”

“I intend to see him whole and well,” Tyelkormo replied coldly.

 _Ai!_ Lalwendë thought, _How can one who experienced not the Helcaraxë sound so much like ice?_

“Then you will be waiting until the end of time to do so,” she said in answer and managed not to close her eyes upon Findekáno’s unsubtle flinch. “The state of reality bends not even to your father’s stubborn will.”

“And you are wrong,” Tyelkormo said.

“As wrong as the healers who have tended him all this time?”

This silenced the elf for some time. In his speechlessness he stroked his brother’s shortened hair, a myriad of emotions crossing his face. He had never mastered the ability to hide his feelings as a diplomat and politician, as a Prince needed to in the Courts of elves. This he had inherited from his father, though possessed more strongly.  

“He will wake,” the other declared at last. Tyelkormo’s gaze was heated and wet, though it did not turn back towards his aunt. “You may have given up on him, father may have given up on him and all my brothers, but I will not.”

“ _We_ will not,” Findekáno. His cousin’s fair head snapped up and then, after a moment, nodded in understanding. At least in this they were joined.

This made it no easier for Lalwendë to crush such thoughts. “We spoke of this already, Findekáno. Your cousin is consumed by a fever no one can lower or cure. The odds of his survival of it are as small as the most distant stars might appear in the sky.”

“Itarillë hopes.”

“Itarillë is a child!” Lalwendë snapped. “You, on the other hand, are-”

“As faithless as you?” Tyelkormo spat. “I think not. Despair has rooted itself inside of you as it does all things of prey that chose to lay down and die when they could instead have fled to freedom.” He turned to place both hands upon his brother’s too-thin shoulders. “Wake, Nelyo, and know there are people here who hope for you yet.”

Findekáno, who had flinched at her poor phrasing before, now interjected, his voice calmer than it had been previously but no less filled with stubbornness. “You cannot change our minds, Aunt. So long as he draws breath, I shall believe he will live.”

“Then I shall cease trying,” she said, annoyed and grieved and perhaps a little guilty, and further annoyed for what else could she do but prepare for the worst? Instead she turned to her other conscious nephew, fixing him with a frigid stare. “Leave, Tyelkormo Fëanorian,” she said, as cold as the ice upon the Helcaraxë. “You are not welcomed here.”

Thankfully, so thankfully, he did not push his luck. Instead the hunter bent to kiss his brother’s forehead in farewell, an act almost done in defiance against their aunt.

“I can tell the fire of life burns in you yet, more strongly than any sickness,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear. Then he went out the window Findekáno held open, looking back only once at the brother he left behind as he followed his cousin out of the settlement.

Why? she almost cried to his departing figure. Why had he done it all those years ago at Losgar? But her mouth did not move and the one she beseeched in anger and hurt confusion did not hear.

Lalwendë collapsed upon her knees by her eldest nephew’s bed.

Why were things so difficult? Was this the Doom making itself known to them all? Why would the Powers of this world grant them such a thing?

(She had drawn blood in Alqualondë, the first blood she had drawn that was elven in nature and malicious in intent. Her family needed protection and they needed ships, and, oh! how Fëanáro had burned as a beacon bright and unrelenting to the tide of things…)

Her nephew burned now, even hotter than before. Only a thin sheet covered him, hiding away the scars he had earned in torment unrivalled by anything else she had the horror to know. What were missing fingertips to such?

“Ai! Mai-” she tried, but could not finish, choking to a halt on the name.

What sort of aunt was she? One who could not even use his name though was ready to let others use him in the movements politics demanded of them all. So kind he had been to her in their youth, so kind still up to and including his refusal to aid his father’s damnation of them. What had he truly done that she had not to deserve all those scars upon his skin?

Thinking this, she began to cry in earnest.

“Nai! Good journey into the beyond, dear nephew, though we may end in different places if I too pass from this world. Sleep well, that you may go softly from here, and know my heart will weep to the time when we will meet again,” said she.

In the shadows cast over Maitimo’s gaunt face by candlelight and his own protruding bones, it almost seemed his eyelids flickered in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nai = expression of sadness, pain and grief in Quenya. 
> 
> I hope I didn’t make Turgon and some others here too antagonistic (or really antagonistic at all, beyond what is reasonable for their characters in context). Also, at this point I am praying that I don’t stuff up the multiple plot points I’ve got going on… Not sure how well Celegorm’s appearance went either or the ending. Once more I kind of gave in and left it as it was. 
> 
> In any case, next chapter should be up tomorrow in a rare speedy update. In any case, please leave a comment. I love receiving them and would love to know what you think!


	10. Chapter 10

Time passed in eerie stagnation within the confines of the realms he was in. Somewhere beyond there was something moving, something whirling onwards, onwards, churning and growing and, inevitably, living as all granted the flame of life must. But between there and where sat in an abstract sort of way was an almost void. It was much like a room filled with glass things that had been broken. Even now he could hear the echo of a lonely fragment falling to shatter further on the insubstantial floor.

It was a place he did not like to go.

Instead he stayed where he was, content in that painless existence. (Why so content? Fragments of fire. Of laughter. Of hands, hands, _hand_ -)

It was calm in this non-place. Its essence was much like a pool whose ripples were caused by droplets of mist alone, rolling soft and slow along the water’s translucent surface. Warm and calm. He did not have to think of being here.

_…go…go…go…_

The sound was an echo, bouncing off the fog that engulfed his mind and reverberating into the distant corners of it where he could not hear and did not wish to follow. What sound it was the elf did not care to guess. His curiosity was but a distant, passing fancy each time the sound renewed itself and he found himself instead content to let his mind wander from him, scattering like falling leaves that skim across water faces. He was content here.

(Why was he content?)

(Laughter. Fire. Steel and lash. Hands and lips that were not his own. Hands and lips. A hand-)

The elf gazed at the pool before him, its white glow blinding to all but he who looked upon it. At first it had been faint, and in its faintness, he had strayed beyond this place to somewhere darker. It had not seemed a malicious dark. Rather, there was a reassuring heaviness to it that seemed as though it could easily press against his weary fëa and let him lose himself there, unmade, unmaking, unbeing in hröa and perhaps in fëa.

Beyond this space stood a figure cast in shadow, an outline against the dark. It was a formidable figure, even at such a distance, yet somehow a source of comfort and ending too. It was not the Vala he had come to know too well.

(Lips and hands and laughter. Chains, too many, all strangling and unyielding. Bolted through his hand. No- Was it? His hand…)

The figure did not reach for him. Did it need to? They were Doomed and he had found his quickly enough.

_…go…go…go…_

Back to the mist. Back to the pool. Back to its blinding glow. He had not a form like this, the elf, but he could feel himself as well as he was ever able. There and not there. There and burning. He burned and it grew brighter, and he remembered the imprint of fire against him, that same fire that burned within. Someone had stroked its embers before, careful and tender and burning more than he. A fire he had followed its trace back to the source. Had brushed against a consciousness and asked that question and waited for reply.

(Had he found it? He did not know.)

(Chains and laughter. Chains and Fire. Whose fire was it? Theirs or someone else’s? Theirs or his?)

That ember stroking had been a while ago. Years or hours. He did not know. He paused. How long _had_ it been? Did it matter?

The pool glowed and the elf reached out to brush it, unable to refrain from touching any longer. His fingers broke the surface and swayed in place.

_…go…go…go…_

It was not as liquid was. Was this wrong? Was it right?

The bright white grew, powered by what he could not tell, and the eventually the elf gasped. It burned, it must have, for it felt so hot. Yet, to his fingers submerged it seemed like kin. To his fingers it went, draining up into his hand (hands? Hand). Draining past his hand into his arm and then his chest, draining across his skin so that it seemed to consume him and yet-

It felt like kin.

The pool was darkening now and somehow the elf knew it was nearing its end. Was he? Where was that figure, then, to greet him? Where was the darkness to consume him?

Could it consume such a light as this?

The elf gasped again, now entirely white and entirely glowing. He burned at it was magnificent. He burned and it seemed like him, filled by something he had not lost nor could lose to hollowness. Was he hollow? He felt so. That Between space felt so with its shattered glass, yet this light filled its gaps and cracks well.

(Well it filled them. Well it burned. Yet, it seemed not enough. Something tugged upon it like leash upon a dog, straining against it, containing it, keeping it, holding it fast and cruel.)  

(Chains and pain and laughter. Chains and pain and death?)

(No.)

In the midst of the white light his ears could work, and sound flooded him from somewhere beyond. It was garbled, incomprehensible, meaningless and meaningful all at once. Pain. Grief. Anger. Hope.

(Brother?)

(No...)

Something echoed in his head. It could have well been a child’s voice. A child’s words. A child’s memory:

_Where shall we go, go, go?_

This was the thought that stayed with him through waking. What thought it was or why he thought it, the elf had no answer for. Indeed, any answer would have fled when his eyes finally cracked open and his vision almost whited out from the overwhelming pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter and thus a quick update. The next one should be back to normal length though. 
> 
> I have so many things I want to say and ask here, but I’ll spoil everything if I do. So I’ll settle for asking if you would please put your thoughts in the comments for me to read and let me know if you have any suspicions as to where this story might be heading (though it’s got a long way to go yet!).


	11. Chapter 11

Time had passed quickly since the healer’s assistant had come to fetch him, bearing news that had sent him back to his house at a run, near uncaring for the dignity and poise a Lord and Prince should display before his people. For other elves undoubtedly saw Ñolofinwë. Indeed, murmurs followed as he flew by, speculations as to what drove him so when the alarm had not sounded for the guards to assemble a defence. Murmurs followed and guesses were made. Whispers came from both directions – the one Ñolofinwë ran from and the one he ran to – all mingling to speak of one thing:

Maitimo was awake.

And for those who doubted, they only had to step within sight of their Lord’s house to hear the echoes of screaming rebounding through the modest courtyard at the house’s front, replenished by each new bout of screaming that quickly followed. On and on it went, endless wretchedness that it was.

The cries at the failing of the Trees in Valinor were different to the wails of Fëanáro when he had learnt of Finwë’s death, which in turn had been different to the laments of those wives and sisters, fathers and brothers whose kin – Noldor and Teleri – had died at Alqualondë. Then there were the silent howls upon the Helcaraxë, sound stolen by icy wind and scattered across the white death plains they had walked. At Arakáno’s death Ñolofinwë had howled with all the magnitude of his people’s sins and suffering. It was a father’s grief and a father’s rage, and it had torn him in two as he had screamed it. Yet, it held nothing to the screams of Maitimo now.

There had been an orc, once, alone in the forests surrounding Mithrim when the Noldor Lord had been on patrol. The creature, far from the usual brutal cruelty of its brethren, had been keening. It had been a long, broken sound like that from a wounded dog being crushed beneath the weight of many rocks, only the orc was being crushed under the weight of horror, in mourning for the loss of its own self. Stories, whispers, the horrified dreams of what might have been done at the dawn of the Elves’ Awakening – all these had cumulated in that moment in that place, in that wretched sound. It had been no answer to a question long asked. Yet, it had been enough to horrify. All the warriors there with Ñolofinwë had trembled, grim faced, as their Lord had trembled, and the killing of that orc when it leapt at them with broken sword had seemed more a mercy than anything.

Maitimo’s screams were equally horrific. Was it because he was kin? Was it because the pain seemed not just pain, but some other dreadful thing? Or was it because the silence that came shortly after was infinitely worse to hear?

It was no silence of peace or unconsciousness. Even the air was tense, coiled and waiting for the infliction of…something. Pain? Darkness? Steel, cold, rough, raw, absent. Hands instead. Holding. Bruising. Tracing. Pain.  Vivid pain. The thought grasped the Lord’s frantic mind, its iron grip like claws against his psyche, rending and twisting and potent enough for him to slam the barriers around his mind up against it and the air that produced it.

There was still that silence and all it left unsaid.  

Ñolofinwë gritted his teeth against it. Ploughed on. Ignored the empty roads around his house. Ignored the empty courtyard between where even the birds dared not stay. Ignored how his hands trembled even in their fists when he reached to push the ajar door to enter his own home.

A young healer sent him a startled glance as the Lord barged past. He almost dropped the pile of bandages he was holding, all spotted with red. On a table passed laid several bunches of dried yarrow. A bowl and pestle sat beside it, half-filled with powder. Voices echoed about the place, stilted and stressed. Elsewhere in the house the fireplace had been lit, no doubt for brewing herbs. There was half a mandrake root on the floor. A scrap of willow bark had been dropped further on, and by the door to the room where Maitimo laid sat more bloodied things. Such signs did not bode well.

Unconsciously, Ñolofinwë sent a prayer to Estë that what he should find upon entering would not be a scene similar to when the eagle had come, would not be filled with the same overwhelming blood and mess and stench of nearing death.

An uncle’s hands trembled. Opened the door. He entered at a gentler pace, wary of disturbing the healers at their work where they crowded his ailing nephew’s bed. The Lord did not call out, though he watched intensely, and when on healer shifted breaking the wall of elves before him, he saw past them to the bed and the truth of things.

Maitimo was indeed awake, his silver eyes open though glazed and terrified. Relief fought dismay inside of Ñolofinwë and his stomach churned as a result. Every flinch his nephew gave, every wordless gasp-

The healers paid their patient no mind as they attempted to keep him still enough to pack his bleeding wounds with yarrow powder and apply stiches. Several were focused on his shortened arm, muttering half sentences and half unheeded commands. The anxiety in the room was palpable, exuding from everyone there as Maitimo tried to fend off the very ones trying to help him, which ultimately served to make everyone’s actions rougher in their treatment of the ill elf. This, in turn, only served to make Maitimo more restless.

One of the more senior healers raised her voice above the rest, calling for all manner of herbs that might relieve immense pain. Her hands were steady as she stitched, and she implored Maitimo to calm several times though he gave no response. It was her who directed a wet cloth to be laid on his head – that fever ever-present – asking that the water used be mixed with athelas and lavender oil. Several more elves were directed to begin singing a soft, calming tune. Yet, before this gentle magic could take root it was abruptly disturbed by a clay jar smashing upon the ground.

Maitimo flinched back violently and his stitches tore anew. Blood flowed freely from the reopened wounds.

(If he died now-)

“Clean that mess up!” the female healer snapped. Someone scrambled to do as bidden.

The tension became almost unbearable. Now all the healers were snapping at each other or just about, surely grinding their teeth into little pebbles. Ñolofinwë found himself doing the same, more so as another jar smashed to a wild curse. Maitimo’s waking had not been expected and no one had prepared (was it a wrong to have been led by despair?), nor had anyone been prepared for the apparent violence of the elf’s waking. The room was chaos. Muttered arguments followed muttered curses and pointless invoking of the names of Estë and Lórien. Bodies vied for space in a space too small to fit them all and neatly grant them access to the bed. A steady rotation of assistants passed through the door bringing more supplies, taking what had been used and spoiled. Someone slipped in the spilt oil with a loud cry. Against it all, Maitimo strained against the hands restraining him, strained until his ravaged body could strain no more and betrayed him as easily as tar betrayed the boats they coated to flame.

His uncle’s heart clenched at the sight. Less than sixty breaths he had been frozen in place. Now he itched to fix this mess. To find someone else who could while he held his nephew and promised that everything would be right again given time. There was one elf the Lord could trust to cage such chaos and bring much needed order back to the room, but Ñolofinwë could not find his face among the others.

“Where is Ewinadur?” he rumbled.

“He has been sent for,” Lalwendë replied from where she sat by their nephew’s head, stroking his short hair and keeping it fixed in place as the healers worked. Her hair had fallen out of its elegant braided bun, strands sticking to her face with the sweat of exertion. She stroked Maitimo’s hair again and he whimpered in return.

What was going through his mind? What torments plagued him? For the first and not the last time Ñolofinwë found himself consciously questioning the kindness of his nephew’s waking.

“You are safe,” Lalwendë murmured, “Safe.”

But Maitimo did not seem to understand the word.

He whimpered and his uncle finally stepped towards the bed, reaching out a hand before letting it fall uselessly to his side. The distressed elf did not need more around him, touching him and holding him against his clear though unvoiced wishes when he could not even recognise what it was that those touching him did. There were tears in Lalwendë’s eyes and her brother gently brushed against her mind. What support he could offer was little, but she received it nonetheless, her gratitude echoing back voicelessly across the osanwë.

Ñolofinwë swallowed as her pain echoed back too.  

Of all their father’s kin, Lalwendë and Maitimo were the closest in age after the Ambarussa, and Turkáno and Findárato who, though not twins, were also born in the same year. Less than two years sat between them for Indis had fallen pregnant soon after Maitimo had been born. Aunt and nephew had been playmates because of it, rare as elflings were among their kind. That youthful friendship had diverted somewhat as both grew older and fallen into their roles in the family, an awkwardness arising as the elder initially balked at deferring to the younger. Even after that initial uneasy period, Lalwendë (nor their brother turned coward and turned back) had never been able to truly reprimand her eldest nephew, the same nephew, Ñolofinwë knew, that she had followed so earnestly in her youth.

On the faint strings of osanwë the Lord could sense the vague memory of following a red haired elfling on many an adventure, of crying until child lips smacked the offending scrape better, of seeking out a friend’s bed when a storm grew too loud at night. These tangled with his own memories of Fëanáro’s first child – a babe blinking silver eyes up at him, watching as he learned his lessons and clapping with a child’s wide-eyed awe as he proudly recited his first speeches to be given in Court. Another whimper came and it seemed to come from that young child, not the drastically ill adult upon the bed.

Ñolofinwë stepped forward again but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“What goes on that such numbers are required?” Ewinadur rumbled from deep within his throat. “There are too many here.”

“The patient is not in his right mind,” the elleth from before replied, her head lifting to reveal three scratches along her cheek that Ñolofinwë had not seen before. “He was thrashing and tore his stitches severely, and when we tried to right them, he began to fight against us making it necessary for us to restrain him as well we could for his safety and ours.”

“Does he fight now?” the elder healer asked. Then shook his head. “Release him and those of you not tending wounds step back that I might look him over myself.”

His words were obeyed with a more ordered calm than before. It seemed that the elf had magically conjured the tension of before away, filling the space instead with a determined professionalism concerned only with what needed to be done.

The healer came to stand over where Maitimo laid and those silver (opened) eyes regarded him with fear.

“All will be well, Maitimo,” Ewinadur said a soothing voice. “Do you recognise me? Your grandfather knew me well.”

Maitimo whimpered again, turning his head aside in Lalwendë’s loosened grip and shutting his eyes tightly.

“You are hurt,” the healer continued, visibly undeterred. “And I know you are in pain. We must tend to you so both these things will go away.”

His hands accepted a roll of linen from an assistant beside him, coming to wrap the newest stitches that adorned his charge. As he did so, he called for chamomile and lavender to be crushed in a bowl of hot water and brought to him at once. Then the elf inquired after what Maitimo had been given to stem the pain of his injuries.

“Nothing,” another elf replied unhappily. “All we have tried to administer has been refused. He spits it back up or else tries to bite any hands that come near his mouth. The only pain relief we can manage are those ointments and salves spread onto his wounds. In truth, the bleeding concerned us more at the time for he has not enough strength to lose any significant amount.”

“Fetch me a brew of mandrake then. Ensure it is on the weaker side. A potent dose will likely do more harm than good.”

As that elf left, one with the requested bowl returned. Ewinadur busied himself with shooing a few more elves from the room before he waved Ñolofinwë forward and gestured for him to take the bowl.

“Hold that near your nephew’s head,” he said and encouraged the Lord to kneel by the bedside.

The hot water gave off vapours that brought a sense of slowness to Ñolofinwë’s own frantic heart. It seemed the water had been embedded with magic and a blessing for peace where the purple heads of lavender and the white ones of chamomile limply floated. Obeying Ewinadur’s command, the Lord held the bowl just below the edge of the bed where his nephew’s face was turned towards the wall. This allowed the vapours and their soothing effect to waft up to Maitimo’s nose. The elf groaned but did not move away, suddenly seeming as bone deep exhausted as many an elf had been upon the Helcaraxë. As his uncle watched, he sank heavier into the bed, his limbs going utterly limp.

Ewinadur hummed above him, wordlessly directing Lalwendë to continue smoothing the sick elf’s brow with a damp cloth. Beads of water trickled down Maitimo’s forehead, coming to rest in the corner of his eyes like tears.

Was his nephew crying? Ñolofinwë knew it was so.

“His fever is breaking,” one of the other healers still in the room said with surprise as they felt the great heat from their patient’s skin ebb.

“Another miracle then,” Ewinadur murmured. He stroked Maitimo’s wet cheek once, twice, then accepted a cup from someone’s hand. “Drink this,” he told the younger elf. “It will help ease the pain.”

Taking the elf’s lethargic head, he gently raised it up and pressed the cup to his lips. Time passed on, but the healer was patient and the vapours had seemingly done their job in making Maitimo more compliant. He drank dully the small sips Ewinadur gave him while the healer lightly stroked his throat to encourage swallowing. Time passed on and this medicine too seemed to take its affect, the mandrake root drawing Maitimo back into the depths of sleep.

His silver eyes closed and Ñolofinwë let out a shaky breath.

“I suggest you both take time to collect yourselves, my Lord and Lady,” Ewinadur said to the elf and his sister. “We can finish here and then I will need to speak to you both. You may place the bowl on the table beside you.”

Ñolofinwë did as bid, relinquishing the bowl and taking Lalwendë by the hand as she stood before drawing her from the room. Upon the door closing his sister collapsed into his arms weeping.

“He did not scream at first,” she sobbed. “When his eyes opened, he did not scream. Only when I went to touch him. Only then.”

“He is confused,” Ñolofinwë told her, stroking her frazzled hair. “He has suffered much, and it is no surprise that such an abrupt transition from the suffocating presence of the Enemy to the friendly faces here is overwhelming. He is also ill, and you must account for this as well. It was not you, Lalwen. It was not you.”

“How can you be certain? You were not there.” But she held her brother tighter in any case as though the proximity would allow his belief to pass through him to her.

Ñolofinwë only wished his belief were steadier. Who knew what their half-brother had taught his sons in the intervening years between their parting and reunion? Who knew what the Dark Foe had done to one held so long in his grasp? What if Maitimo had been twisted-

Yet, those were Mahtar’s fears come to haunt him in his doubt. Ñolofinwë shook them off.

“Give him time, Lalwen,” the elf said. It echoed the advice many had given him, from his mother to the mother of the hapless elf they had just witnessed in waking, about a long naïve desire to forge brotherhood where it failed in the frost of spite. What had time done for Fëanáro save to twist his mind further in bitterness?

Maitimo was not his father. Maitimo had objected to the burning of the ships.

“Give Maitimo time. He will come back to himself soon enough if there is any justice in this world.”

“Some would argue that justice would have long abandoned these shores and our House if any indeed existed,” his sister replied.

Ñolofinwë cupped her chin, tilting her head up to meet his gaze and stroking away a stray tear with his thumb. He looked into her eyes and saw a spark there alongside anguish and… _shame?_ “But you would argue otherwise.”

“Justice is what we make ourselves,” Lalwendë said, the tremor in her voice fading. “It is our swords and our voices raised against the Valar who would deny us and against the ones who seek us harm. It is our condemning of those who betray us by flame or cowardness. It is the vengeance we wreck for the fallen that mark our paths and dreams.” Then she sobbed again and clutched at her brother’s chest, an elfling again seeking comfort in the other’s arms. “Yet, justice is merely what follows a wrong done and in need of correcting. Our House can make its own justice, but I do not know if we can undo wrongs so grievous and lasting.”

“How many of those fading upon the Grinding Ice did you help recover?” her brother retorted. Was it an adequate comparison? Many had retained themselves even in their fading, had retained the awareness of who they were and where they laid dying. Others had not. Those had been more painful to coax back to the living realm. To shatter a hallucination of happier times when husband and wives were not sundered by will, where there was sweet warmth and the Trees both shone bright in their mingling – it had been tempting to just sit and fade as well. Happy delusions in a nightmarish place were cruel indeed.

As for nightmare delusions in a somewhat happy place?

“All will be well, you will see,” Ñolofinwë said, trying not to feel the hollowness of his words. Maitimo had awakened. That alone was a miracle worth celebrating. He rubbed his eyes. “At least we will not need to worry about violence following Maitimo’s untimely death.”

Lalwendë stilled against him. “I fear you speak too soon, brother.”

“How so?”

She pushed away from the other elf, looking up at him with serious eyes. “You sent a letter, did you not, asking our treacherous half-brother to prepare for his eldest son’s death?”

“Aye.”

“And you will send a letter informing him of our nephew’s awakening.”

It was a statement, but Ñolofinwë nodded anyway. “As soon as Ewinadur can write up a detailed report and I have spoken with the Council on-”

“You need to send a message now, as in right now.”

“Why? It would be better to wait and ascertain Maitimo’s condition properly. Furthermore, Fëanáro will be expecting an offer to see his son immediately – he was promised negotiations upon Maitimo’s waking and I need time to determine what offer would be best to make, to make the first offer so that we may stay a step ahead of him and in control of this situation.”

“This situation is already beyond control,” Lalwendë said with a dramatic sweep of her arm. It became clear she did not simply mean the situation with Maitimo as she continued at a slower pace, “How do you think it will look to have gone from writing to Fëanáro of his son’s impending death without giving him the chance to ascertain this as fact beyond our words, to keeping from him, for however short a period of time, the news that his eldest son and heir will live?”

Ñolofinwë paled. Even the abrupt turnabout in Maitimo’s condition alone would prove suspicious to his half-brother’s paranoid and spiteful mind. They would be lucky to not wake to war upon their doorsteps in the morning.

“Our hasty despair may be our undoing in this,” he breathed, the weight of over a thousand grown elves suddenly upon his shoulders. His people, had he condemned his people to further heartache wrought by his too fierce, too quick to anger half-brother?

The Noldor Lord flung himself forward, dashing through the house into the courtyard outside. By chance, by pure, blessed chance a pair of guards had wandered past in their patrol. He called to the closest one, trying to reign in the desperation in his voice.

“Yes, my Lord?” the elf said, a somewhat wary expression upon his face.

“You are to deliver a message to the other Noldor settlement,” Ñolofinwë answered. “Immediately.”

 “I shall need to tell the Captain-”

“I shall see to it and to any other who questions your whereabouts,” said the Lord. “What is your name?”

“Ñalmon, my Lord.”

“Well met, Ñalmon. Take the fastest horse and ask to see Fëanáro directly,” the second son of Finwë said. “Tell him these exact words: Maitimo has woken and you may send one, and only one, elf to ascertain the legitimacy of this claim so long as they are not you or any kin related to you. Should you or any of your sons or grandsons arrive at the gates of the Northern settlement, they will be refused entry. Should more than one elf arrive to ascertain Maitimo’s condition, they will be refused entry. This is as much to ensure the peace amongst my people as it is to ensure the health of your son. Even now, only the healers have been granted entry to his room that they might work with ease. Too many elves, too much excitement, and the healers fear we may lose him still. Yet, they are dedicated to Maitimo’s preservation. A more detailed letter will follow this message as soon as the healers have stabilised Maitimo, outlining the beginnings of a new negotiation between us on this matter. Until then, have patience. Your son lives.”

“And should someone ask me at the point of a sword why I wish to see him, my Lord?”

“Then tell them you carry an urgent message about their King’s eldest son. Then tell them that you deliver it at my request and that I expect you back whole and unencumbered as soon as your message has been given.”

The guard paused. “Would you repeat the message, so that I may ensure I remember it correctly?”

Ñolofinwë did so, barely suppressing his urge to fidget in his anxiety. Ñalmon repeated it back to him once and nodded his head upon his successful remembrance.

“Farewell, my Lord,” the guard said.

“Go with my blessings,” Ñolofinwë replied. Then Ñalmon was off and the tension in his Lord eased a little. To the remaining guard he bid farewell after learning the name of his and Ñalmon’s Captain and went inside to ask one of the healer’s assistants to deliver a message to said Captain about his guard’s change in task.

“Has it been dealt with?” Lalwendë asked as she returned to his side.

“For now,” her brother replied. They could only wait and see what Fëanáro’s response would be.

Brother and sister did not speak further, moving to the lounge of the house to quietly wait for Ewinadur to emerge. They sat together, Lalwendë folded into her brother’s side. Ñolofinwë, in turn, stroked her hair and hummed a simple tune. Time passed and both found themselves wishing it would pass faster.

“My Lord. My Lady.”

At Ewinadur’s voice, both elves stood to attention.

“How is he?” It was Lalwendë who spoke first, her words hasty and ever concerned for her kin.

“He rests with the aid of our medicine,” the healer said. “I cannot say for certain when he will wake next, but we shall be keeping vigil until he does. It is best if less are present in the room so as not to overwhelm him as he was this time around. Hopefully the rest will do him good and help his hröa begin to repair itself more fully.”

“What of the rest of his condition?” Ñolofinwë asked.

“He tore a good number of his stiches in waking as he did,” Ewinadur sighed. “That strength should not have been possible for him in his state, but your father’s House has ever defied the odds. Exhaustion grips him now and the depth of it worries me, but it has stilled his gentleness for now. His fever has also thankfully subsided entirely, though it went quickly and left him worringly cold. He needs to be kept warm until his temperature can regulate itself properly.”

“He is in great pain,” Ñolofinwë said.

Ewinadur’s face was grim. “Aye. I will not lie. He is. Whether it is this pain that clouds his mind and prevents him from recognising us, I do not know.”

“Perhaps it was the fever.”

“Or perhaps it was something else.” The implications were left to the others’ imagination as Ewinadur continued. “Whatever it proves to be, I believe it would be unwise to use osanwë with him lest it should fracture his mind further. Whether either of you have come to this conclusion previously, it was lucky that none tried to use it before or else the situation may have deteriorated further.”

It was then that Hauaranis entered, carrying a tray of cups filled to the brim with a what smelled like a sweet tea. The elf offered the tray first to Lalwendë, then Ñolofinwë before proffering the last cup to the healer. Ewinadur thanked her and took the cup, drinking deeply as Hauranis discretely retreated from the room.  

“I fear our efforts before will seem easy compared to the effort we must exert now,” the healer said at last. “His state of mind is my primary concern and the primary hindrance to our treatment of him.”

“What can we do?” Lalwendë asked.

Ewinadur shook his head. “I do not know. For now, we must simply wait to see what it is we must contend with. None of us knows what he has been through or how it might have affected his disposition…” He passed a hand over his weary face. “I think I shall need to question Lord Findekáno to learn if he knows anything more of his cousin’s condition. Until then, I think I shall retreat to my own rest, if you both would excuse me.”

“Of course,” Ñolofinwë said. “You can use my room. Ask Hauranis to show you and let her know if you are in need of anything else. Your services here do not go unappreciated.”

“I do not need your appreciation for what I do, though it is good to have it all the same,” Ewinadur smiled tiredly. Then he left, taking his tea with him.

Ñolofinwë sunk back into the chair he had been sitting on, Lalwendë following him.

“I suppose the rest of our kin must be told,” she said.

“Be thankful you need not tell the Councillors,” her brother grimly replied. With a sigh he stood, knowing that it was something that was better confronted sooner than later. Lalwendë, however, did not seem to share the same opinion and she tugged her brother back into the seat.

“They can wait a while longer,” she said. “And if any begrudge you the time needed to gather yourself then I will deal with them directly.”

The other elf managed a smile. “Ah yes, my formidable sister, the bane of all Elven Courts.”

“The bane of yours, perhaps,” she answered. “You will do yourself away with all the stress of this.”

“It is far less than that I felt upon the Helcaraxë,” Ñolofinwë replied, running the back of his hand down her cheek. “As you pointed out with Fëanáro, I shall point out now – it is unwise to leave the Councillors among our people in the dark regarding this. Their acceptance of Maitimo here is tentative at best and it will earn us no favours with them, or our people, should they have reason to think we keep secrets from them on this matter.”

“When did you become so wise?” There were tears in Lalwendë’s eyes, though he could not tell why they were there.

 _If this is wisdom, it is tiring,_ Ñolofinwë thought. He closed his eyes and exhaled long and hard. Then he stood again and this time his sister did not stop him. He left the room and the house, and his sister did not stop him.

(Did he want her to?)

(He wanted time for him to process everything, his grief and relief and the horror of that waking. Yet he was Lord of his House and leader of his people divided from their kin on the other side of the lake. He could not, even in his wanting. Not now.)

It did not take long to call the Council to its start, the various Lords present all keeping their gazes pinned on Ñolofinwë. It made him feel rather like a specimen about to be examined by an array of curious scholars.

“He’s woken,” were the first words out of Mahtar’s mouth.

Lord Naham looked a little pale at the thought. “I heard the screaming near your house and the talk later of those who were closer by. Several thought they recognised the voice enough to identify it as your nephew’s.”

Ñolofinwë dipped his head, acknowledging both facts. “Indeed, Maitimo has woken. Yet, he is still very much ill as Ewinadur would tell you were he here. Even now he sleeps again at the healers’ behest. It may be that he sleeps in such a manner for some time, only waking fleetingly, weak as he is. As such, the only thing changed about this situation is that he has woken and the original agreement with Fëanáro for him to say away no longer holds. I have already granted him permission to send one of his people to verify the news lest he should think us liars and rashly upon that thought. Now we must decide how best to negotiate with him that grants us the advantage in this.”

“What would you suggest?” one elf asked.

Ñolofinwë steepled his fingers, exuding a confidence he did not truly feel. “There are a few ideas, though whether they are the most ideal…”

So the next hour went, debating the various conditions that could be allowed for visitation and what would not work.

“He will want to come immediately,” one older Lord said. “Ever has he been hasty.”

“Him and all his sons and all their armies?” Mahtar retorted.

“Him and his sons, perhaps, if they were to offer up appropriate payment demonstrating the worth of their ability to see him,” another began.

Later someone raised the question of time, asking how long visitation should be allowed.

“Do we propose a one-time arrangement, thus needing to make new arrangements each time they demand to see their kin, or do we allow someone to stay with him constantly?”

“The people would riot at such a thing,” Naham said. “There is no love for the House of Fëanáro here.”

“Though having another of his sons in our midst, if they were kept ignorant of our settlement’s inner workings, could prove a greater bargaining piece than one,” someone else raised.

“I fear we would be pressing our luck with keeping Maitimo as a permanent resident here for the foreseeable future,” Ñolofinwë said. “Fëanáro is known for his love of his sons and his lack of patience for those who attempt to corral him into submission.”

“And his treachery,” Leucadil added. “He must be made to pay the reparations he owes us one way or another.”

It was strange to speak of Maitimo as a pawn in this game of politics the Noldor played, as strange as it had been in the previous Councils he had held on the matter and in the confines of his own home when the worst was discussed amongst his kin. It was not something he had given much thought before, not something he had allowed himself to think about for the guilt and shame that ever so quietly brushed his steadfast determination to do what was necessary for his people. Yet, Findekáno’s words from earlier were stuck in his mind. Was this the sort of politics that he had wished to take part in as an elfling?

(It was the politics needed for his people to survive.)

( _Ewindaur, on a grim night when all seemed hopeless and kin seemed closed to death than life:_ _“We must ask ourselves if sacrificing the wellbeing of one is worth the supposed common good.”)_

The Council ended with little decided and much to think on, none truly happy as they left. Mahtar had again implored that Maitimo needed to be assessed for his connection to the Dark Lord, but conceded, perhaps unhappily, that any use of osanwë was unwise in the wake of the younger elf’s confusion. Ñolofinwë had cited fever and weakness as the reason for this, unwilling to let the true extent of his nephew’s psyche be known. Not now, at least.

He rubbed his face with his hands, taking in the empty room and wondering if he had finally found the time to collect himself. He collapsed back into a chair, closed his eyes and felt the burn of budding tears.

“Father?”

Ñolofinwë refrained from sighing, instead looking to where Findekáno peered around the door in concern. He raised one hand, beckoning his son to him and accepted the younger’s hands clasping around his own.

“What is it? The settlement is astir though the rumours make no sense-”

“Maitimo is awake,” the elf sitting said.

Far from crying out in joy, his eldest son collapsed against the ground. “He survived…”

“As you said he would,” Ñolofinwë stated, coming to kneel at his son’s side.

Findekáno swallowed, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking in what the other believed to be tears until he heard the strained laughter behind it. “He survived!”

“And rests now,” his father said. “Ewinadur wants to limit the number present in his room, but you may be able to see Maitimo later. You will also need to talk to Ewinadur.”

“About what?”

Ñolofinwë did sigh this time. He remembered well Findekáno’s conflicted words near a week before as he lamented his dead brother and the duty Arakáno’s last words had invoked. It had ended in a heart wrenching confession of the love he felt still for his cousin, of the depth of pain he felt even as the copper haired elf teetered on the brink of life and death. Maitimo’s waking should have been a jovial thing. What it was instead…

“Ewinadur needs to ask you what knowledge you hold of your cousin’s suffering,” he told his son.

“Why?” Findekáno asked and there was a tremor to his voice that could not be hidden. “What has the sights in that foul place got to do with Maitimo’s waking?”

 _How to put this delicately?_ Yet, there was a twinge to Findekáno’s tone that suggested he already knew what to fear of the answer. (What had happened before the eagle had alighted between two almost warring factions?) “Maitimo was confused upon waking and recognised no one nor the treatment of the healers as help. They are concerned as to his state of mind.”

“They think him mad.”

“They think him ill and frightened,” Ñolofinwë admonished. Though madness was perhaps not as far fetched as he would like.

There were rumours enough of the freed captives of Moringotto and their ravings, of habitats and frequent separation from reality. It remained to be seen how many of them would be proven true before his very eyes. Then there was Maitimo’s family. His father, spiteful and paranoid and perhaps a little less sane than he had been before (there was a darkness that hung over Fëanáro, something not quite right though what it was, Ñolofinwë could not name). Míriel was another, softer name he knew only through story and rumour and the legend of one who had faded even in the happiness of Valinor when none could determine why. Did madness run in Maitimo’s veins?

(Did madness run in his own veins? So easily had he given to despair when his son had not ceased hoping for what had proven to be true.)

Ñolofinwë held his son tighter. “Given time, Maitimo may regain himself yet.”

He had defied the odds already. Surely he could do so again.

(And what would he suffer for it, in the doing?)

“I told you,” Findekáno sobbed into his father’s neck and it seemed, more than victory, like a broken-hearted thing. “I told you he would live.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: people breathe on average 12 to 20 times per minute. Transferring this to elves here, Fingolfin has spent under (or just over) 3 minutes observing when he first entered Maedhros’ room. 
> 
> *Edited to fix a mistake I made: I forgot Fingon and Turgon were born in the same year when speaking of who was closest in age.
> 
> Not too happy with the ending, but it is what it is. I hope you enjoyed this. Please leave a comment if you did!

**Author's Note:**

> Names - Sindarin appears first (i.e. on the left). 
> 
> Feanor &; sons (& grandson):
> 
> Fëanor = Fëanáro; Curufinwë (Note the latter name is only rarely applied to him and is used mostly for his son of the same name [see below])  
> Maedhros = Nelyafinwë; Maitimo (Russandol, Nelyo)  
> Maglor = Kanafinwë; Makalaurë (Káno)  
> Celegorm = Turcafinwë; Tyelcormo (Tyelko)  
> Caranthir = Morifinwë; Carnistir (Mori)  
> Curufin = Curufinwë; Atarinkë (Curvo)  
> Amrod = Pitafinwë; Ambarussa (Pitya)  
> Amras = Telufinwë; Ambarussa (Telvo)  
> Celebrimbor = Telperinquar (Telpe)
> 
> Fingolfin & children (daughter-in-law & granddaughter):
> 
> Fingolfin = Ñolofinwë (Ñolvo)  
> Fingon = Findekáno (Finno; Fin)  
> Turgon = Turkáno  
> Aredhel = Iríssë  
> Argon = Arakáno (Ara)  
> Irdil = Itarillë (Celebrindal)
> 
> Finarfin & children:
> 
> Finarfin = Arafinwë; Ingoldo (Ingo)  
> Finrod = Findaráto  
> Angrod = Angaráto  
> Aegnor = Ambaráto  
> Galadriel = Artanis (Alatáriel)  
> Orodeth = Artaresto
> 
> Other members of House Finwë:
> 
> Írimë; Lalwendë (Lalwen)
> 
> Thingol (& wife):
> 
> Elu = Elwë (Thingol)  
> Melian = Melyanna
> 
> Valar:
> 
> Morgoth = Melkor (Moringotto)  
> Aran Einior = Manwë (Valtur)  
> Elbereth = Varda (Elentári; Tintallë; Gilthoniel)  
> Mandos; Námo  
> Óli = Aluë  
> Ivon = Yavanna  
> Lórien; Irmo  
> Araw = Oromë (Tauron)
> 
> Followers of Morgoth:
> 
> Gorthaur (the Cruel) = Sauron; Annatar
> 
> Places:
> 
> Helcaraxë (Grinding Ice)  
> Angband = Angamando  
> Aman; Valinor (Blessed Realm)


End file.
